The Childhood Stories

Over the past month or so I had had a collection of stories published up on Life with my Little Duck starting off during my teenage years, moving into my 20's and then ending today. It was a really interesting trip through thoughts and memories so I thought I would provide a little recap here and link them all in one place for anyone who would like to take a little journey through a few decades and a few countries... Five years ago I started to write a book loosely based on my life/experiences, but I gave up because it was both too close to home and because I didn't think anyone would be interested. I am now putting together several collections of essays which I think will be easier for me to work on and actually finish. In any case, here are the links to all of the stories... Thanks to Ally for publishing all of these stories, as well as many other wonderful and heartbreaking ones. You can see all of the stories from her Childhood Series up on her blog here. 

The Invisibility Cloak - wrap yourself in it as soon as you leave the house...

Survival Modes - high school is a real minefield.

Run, Run Away - everything is just too much and there is no escape.

Young Heart, Old Soul - a different life in different places.

Never Let Go of the Rainbow - a decade in a city that never sleeps.

Everything will be alright
Everything will turn out fine
Some nights I still can't sleep
And the voices pass with time
The Sisters of Mercy - Time To Cry

Fiction: A Story of Oblivion

Ah, those years between 18 and 22 when you are supposed to be "sorting your life out"... When your emotions range from euphoric to despair in the space of minutes, even seconds. Another chapter from the book I never finished. Another excerpt can be found on the blog under the title Run, Run Away.

It’s too hard to get out of bed today. I know that the moment I step out from under the covers I am going to have to deal with life again, and I just wish, for one day, that I didn’t have to deal with it. Just one day, world, just one day of peace and quiet and silence. No classes, no work, no bars, no alcohol, no talks, no demands, no… No him. I mean that I need a day when he doesn’t pop into my head every two seconds and distracts me from life. A day away from life, where I can disappear for a time, be it into some oblivious sleep, some faraway country or just some dream world I concocted when I was a child.

I first learned what the word “oblivion” meant during my first week at the Lycee back in the 90’s. My English teacher had the words “oblivion” and its antonym (it could have been “consciousness” but I really can’t remember anymore) stuck up on one of his pin boards that were hanging on the wall. It attracted my attention, and when I finally had enough courage to ask him what it meant, I decided that it had to be used in my first book. I think I may have told my teacher that, and I hope that somewhere, somehow, he will see this and remember too, although he unfortunately isn’t here with us anymore. In any case, oblivion is one of my favourite words and also the word that will always be the best explanation of what we want to fall into during those times when we fall down, down, down.

 What is oblivion to you? To me it is just somewhere where none of all this that we have to live with and deal with every day exists, and where we don’t have to remember or listen to anything or anyone, and when we come back from it, well, we won’t even remember that it existed anyway. Kind of like the characters in an episode of Lost. You don’t remember the island or anything that happened on it once you are away from it. But once you are there you are away. Maybe I just have a rosy vision of what oblivion really means, maybe it means just gone away for good, unaware of anything, in a catatonic state? I prefer my view. Oblivion is a soft, down-filled bed that I can sink into, like a fluffy white cloud on a sunny day in spring.

Merriam-Webster defines oblivion as being one of the following: “the fact or condition of forgetting or having forgotten; especially : the condition of being oblivious” or “the condition or state of being forgotten or unknown”. I still prefer my definition, it’s just more… Poetic maybe? In any case, this week I just want a day of what I see as oblivion, and although I know that it won’t happen, it doesn’t hurt to dream.

Anyway, I just don’t want to get out of bed. I don’t want to have to go on the tram and be squished up against some pervy man again like yesterday. I don’t want to have to have another attack of the low blood sugars in the middle of class, just because I couldn’t face breakfast again before I left the house. I don’t want to have to deal with all of the idiots who are still in my class because they haven’t dropped out yet, the ones who think they are just too cool. I don’t want one of my professors to yet again ask me what I think about such and such writer, just because they know I am the only one who will dare to say something at least meaningful, or at least thoughtful. Or maybe I just think my responses are meaningful, and they only ask me because I can be bothered to answer. I’m probably already taking myself too seriously, and I haven’t even left my bed yet. I suppose oblivion is not for today, yet again.

The phone is back on the hook again, with at least 5 messages from him. I can’t bear to be woken up by the sound of it ringing and ringing, all night long, with both of them telling me that I should be with them, that they miss me, singing me songs and telling me that I should be out on the town with them, getting drunk, laughing, hugging, kissing, talking to the late hours of the night about everything and nothing. We are not going to save the world, and the world is not going to save us, but we can still talk about the impending doom and the sunrises over the horizon, contemplating what life would be and what life could be and listening to our favourite voices push us on through the night towards a goal that still hasn’t been created in our minds.

I love these boys. I suppose I should really say men, because we are all adults now, but I can’t bring myself to. We are all still so naïve but bolshy at the same time, we know it all but haven’t built those walls of protection around ourselves to save ourselves from the pain that is obviously going to come hurtling down on us at some point. The other night we were all sitting around my make-shift coffee table, drinking Desperados out of cans, listening to Tom Waits on vinyl, smoking Gauloises Blondes and talking about Israel and the anti-Israel politics in France. Sometimes I feel like a few of us pretend to be right wing, but are really left-wing, and I live my life on my own political spectrum terms, which go from the far left to left of center, sometimes hopping over the border to dip my toes and always running back again to my safe haven. We are all so smart and full of ideas, but they always only end up being coffee table ideas, as no one really has the energy to really go for it. It’s come to a point though where I need to move along, make my own way. While I was sitting there mainly listening to them all talk I just realized that I needed more. Instead of talking I need to see, feel, hear, be there.  I can’t stay here like this, dreaming about being born in another century, or at least another year, pretending that everything is allright, that one day I will miraculously wake up somewhere else, somewhere better, in a different life, in a different place.  Back to that oblivion, maybe it’s time to make the oblivion I want a reality.

I listened to the 5 voicemails, all drunken laughter, songs, mainly Jacques Brel and Leonard Cohen, “we love you” and “wish you were here”. I know you wish I were there, but I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t continue to be in love with someone who is in love with someone else, it’s just not possible anymore. If I stick around long enough he will marry me, that’s what he has always said, but I know that I need to live a life for myself before I can accept that and even agree to that. Only because I know that I am the comfort zone, and the others are all the chase, the idea of something different. I don’t want to be someone’s comfort zone, I want to be someone’s muse, I want to inspire someone and to be inspired at the same time.

Hiding away in my apartment and just concentrating on my thesis, my classes, my books, my writing and my depression is my only way of letting go. Leaving the protection of my house is always a chore, that nervous bubble that grows in my stomach, then the building of those protective layers to stave away the pokes and the stabs that are surely going to come my way in the outside world. Eyes to the ground and book in hand I make my way to each destination as fast as possible, hide away in my tiny classes at university, sit in the library for hours taking notes and doing research, teaching my students in the different locations, shopping and then home, to the pure comfort of my bed. I love to have people over, and to cook for them, but I am really struggling with being sociable and happy in public right now. If I go out he will be there, we will drink and talk and kiss, and then I will go home and watch him walk away to the new girlfriend’s house, knowing full well that she is waiting for him there, and I am going home alone. So what if I have his mind and his sociable hours? She has his love and she has him in her bed at night. I am just not pretty enough for him, or just not young enough, or just not something enough, I don’t know. In any case, this is my way of letting go of him. It’s time to branch out, it’s also time to leave the protective group of all my male friends and find someone who will love me for who I want to be. Or something in that vein. In the meantime I need to stave off that feeling of worthlessness, and hide from wanting oblivion too much. Every day I battle these feelings and every day I feel like I fail a little bit more.

Once I finish this thesis it will all be over, unless I want to continue and study for a PhD, and I know now that it’s too early for that. So what next? Run away? Start a new life somewhere else? This world is so large and there are so many places I have to see, but I just don’t know how. Can I leave the comforts of today and go? Can I just pick up and see where the wind drops me? What about my family and friends and cat and belongings? Will I feel the same any place I go or will I feel like a different person? All of these questions keep going around and around in my head, and I can’t keep my brain quiet any longer. I just want to get out of all of this. I need to remove myself from the feeling that if I throw myself in front of a tram on the B line that it will be a quick end. Or take a lot of pills and just fall asleep. Or just never wake up one morning and it will all be over. No more pain or feelings or sadness or confusion or hurt or shyness. No more keeping my mouth shut to avoid confrontation, no more wondering what life would have been like if certain things hadn’t happened. No more missing a person who will never ever come back. And no more hating a person who I can’t fully hate, even if I have every right to. There are so many days that I just want it to end. Too early, too late, never the right time. I just want it to end.

But I know I could never do that, only because I know what the pain is to lose someone in that way and I don’t have the heart to put anyone else through that. No one deserves that, however bad it may be, it could be worse, right? I’m sure there is an answer for me, and I am determined to find it.

Oblivion can wait another day.

Poetry: Oh Those Bells

I sometimes write poetry. It happens very randomly and comes out in one go, I literally can feel the words surging from my heart to my brain and falling out through my pen like a flash of lightning. If I don't have a pen and paper at hand at that moment then they are usually lost forever... I've kept many journals through-out the years and have been combing through them in order to find poems that I think will fit into a collection. I will post some of them here sporadically.

Oh those bells…

Another morning of church bells

Jangling away in my head.

Doom bells clashing with the snow’s party

Softly falling on my face;

Against the icy wind I brace my heart,

There is no clearance, there is no sale,

Future is an everyday option.

What appeared to be a good idea

Last night,

Is today’s worst enemy, source of anger.

Always the same question, chanting along

With the incessant ring of the bells

Why oh why oh why oh why.

As soon as the snowflake falls to the ground

It soaks up the dirt of the street;

Sparkling for a while, lights going dim

Until all that is left is grey mush.

But the church still stands, snow, rain, sun

The bells never go rusty, always oiled

They just never fail or fall aground.

Jade Anna Hughes 2013

Short Story: Here and There

I don't know whether this is a short story, a random burst of words, or the beginning of something a little bigger. We shall see. I started it a few years ago and finished it in one go a couple of days ago. Very minimal editing. I know that if I put it here it won't languish forever in the depths of my "In Progress" folder.

Here and There

She was there on the Wednesday, holding down the fort as usual in our local bar, chatting to some of the regulars, serving drinks with a smile and dancing or singing every time one of her favourite songs came on. As the night went on and the bar filled up with all of the usual late night visitors her smile would brighten and wane in the space of minutes, sometimes even seconds, depending on the requests or demands made upon her. I knew she hadn’t been drinking because she was getting tired and less animated as 4am came and passed, trying to clean up the bar and avoid conversations with people who were obviously inebriated and unaware of the time passing. Sometimes I wondered how she held it together, through all of the drama and the stories that people would tell her, how she didn’t just grab a bottle of whiskey and chug it down, feeling the warmth of the liquid dampen all anger and pain and fear and thoughts.

While she was finishing the cash and her last duties I sat down with her and chatted about life in general. We did a couple of shots together and she locked the bar doors after everyone trickled out into the rising dawn. A hug and a “take care” and our ways parted. Nothing different from any other night at the bar. There never really was a “see you tomorrow” or “see you next week” said between us, it was always just an assumption that both of us would be in the same spots on the block again, maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after. At the most only a couple of days would go past without one of us bumping into the other. She jumped into a cab and blew me a kiss and I made my way down the street to my apartment, craving a cup of tea and a joint on the balcony.

Thursday came and went, as did Friday and the weekend days. I had a few conversations with her at the restaurant, ran into her on the street as she was smoking a cigarette and chatting to some of the restaurant regulars, but we never had a chance to sit down and talk about what she had been going through in her life those past few weeks and how she was dealing with certain changes that had been happening. She seemed content and smiled every time I saw her, and I was obviously too wrapped up in my own world to really notice anything different. That said, there may not have been anything different as she was a professional in keeping everything hidden away. There was so much to her behind the happy exterior, a life lived in different places, stories that she had never told, stories that she was going to tell, but just didn’t know how to yet. Just like anyone she had had a life before the one she was living right here, and most certainly a life to live after she had left the block and continued on her journey.

The following Tuesday I walked into the bar, determined to get some of those stories out of her and to ask her for advice on this girl I had been dating briefly and who I actually kind of liked for once. She wasn’t behind the bar, one of her bosses was.

“Where is she?!”

“Gone.”

“Where to? On holiday??”

“No, she’s gone. Took off and left with no return address. She said it was her time to go, her time to find other adventures and leave the routine she had created for herself. She will let us know where she ends up…”

I don’t like spontaneous changes, especially not when they involve the sudden disappearance of someone that I care about and look forward to seeing every day. But at the same time I have to admit that I am slightly jealous of her ability to actively seek her own happiness and to not let herself get bogged down by day to day life. Maybe it’s something I should consider doing?

___________

I’m coming up on the 6 month mark now and I should probably think about how much I like it here and if it’s time to make it a little more permanent or not. Nashville was a big change from New York, but a positive change. The drive down here was so much fun, just some clothes, my cat, books and music, the rest of my belongings from my 8 years in NYC in storage for the duration. Bruce and Bob and Tim on the stereo and utter freedom from any type of responsibility or demands. Finding a job wasn’t too hard, there are so many bars in downtown Nashville, and with my NY bartending experience I had a few gigs lined up before I even managed to make my way down one of the streets. Live music every night and a different type of climate, and an apartment all to myself in a beautiful little house on a leafy street, walking distance from work and play. I don’t play a musical instrument and I don’t aspire to be a musician. I am a writer but I don’t write songs or music. I just write about everything else, music included. I just thought it was time to go away, time to see something else. Time to actually do something else. I know I should probably question my impulsive decision to leave and maybe try to explain it to others, especially to those I left behind, but I really don’t want to. In the end we are free to do what we like, especially if we don’t have anything tying us down to one place.

I do miss NYC from the bottom of my heart, my friends, the regulars at the bar, those who would pop in with a story, a cookie, a lesson. Even those who would tap softly on the door at 4am, hoping I would let them in for one last drink after hours. I miss walking through the streets, snapping photos of art on walls, of people with faces that you could read in so many different ways. I miss walking into a bodega at 5am and ordering a brie and lettuce sandwich, made fresh in front of you while chatting with the owner about the amount of annoying drunken kids around that night. I miss my little block, bumping into friends all of the time, discussing the weather and the news and the latest accomplishment. I miss popping over to one of my friends’ bars and grabbing a pint and a catch-up chat, laughing about the antics of the night before. I miss those friendships that were made on the spur of the moment over a shot of whiskey and a dab of mischief, laughter in the air. I miss those friendships made over time, starting with light discussions on the street during a cigarette break, leading to lunches, dinners and long text message conversations about life and love and work and sadness.

So why did I leave? Do I regret it? Am I happier now? It’s hard to explain. Every few years my feet start itching and my heart begins to yearn for something else, something different, and something new. For the first time in my adult life I tried to ignore the feeling, and for a while it went away. Then it came back again, a little more insistent so I pushed a little harder, and silenced it with whiskey for a while. In the end even whiskey didn’t work anymore and I started to feel trapped. I stopped feeling the magic of the city and felt like the undertow was pulling me down. I wasn’t ready to face its depths again, not like the time before when I had barely made it back up in one piece. It was time to run, find the magic elsewhere, find love and light and friendships and hope in a different spot, one that didn’t hold all those memories for me. I keep to myself here, just light conversations with coworkers and acquaintances. I prefer to drink in places where the music is loud and transports me elsewhere. I take pieces of people and locations around me and patch them together haphazardly in stories. I was never really into country music before, but now I understand the beauty behind it, the nostalgia and the yearning.

I don’t know if I will stay here. I don’t know if I can go back. I don’t know where I will go next. I used to love the uncertainty. Now I am not so sure anymore. I worry that once I start to make real friends here I will push those little roots back out and plant them in the soil. I don’t know if I am ready for permanence again just yet. There are many places to visit, many cities that are calling my name. New Orleans, Detroit, Austin, San Diego. Maybe even back home to one of my European countries; a pint out in the beer garden on a sunny day or an espresso en terrasse with a cigarette between my fingers. Nostalgia can be a real bitch sometimes. It makes me forget why I left.

Does anything really change? Can I ever go back again?

__________

One by one the businesses closed down. Our block became someone else’s block. Regular faces slowly disappeared, replaced by builders and architects and day labourers. I watched them tear down the bar and the restaurant, another bar and another restaurant. People talked about what may happen for months and then all of a sudden, within days, everything was gone. Raised to the ground. No more flooded basements, no more snow filled roofs. No more noise complaints and wasted kids vomiting on street corners on Saturday nights. No more brunches perched on a stool, no more last calls that would go on for hours. No more discussions over a Cure album or whether the Dylan was a genius or a crap artist. Gone were the warm nights dancing to a fantastic playlist and playing darts; gone were the cold mornings when only a brisk walk to the diner would clear the head enough for a new day.

I don’t know why I am still here, standing at the window in my living room, looking at what used to be such a big part of my life. Soon there will be new apartments there, blocking my view of the area. Rich people, paying luxury prices to live in what used to be the gutter of the city. Maybe that’s the way things will always be in the city, rotating around the rich and the poor, the poor moving out when the rich move in, the rich moving out when they realize that the rock stars changed scenery decades before and the neighbourhood is just a shell of what it used to be. Gradually it will revolve back in the right direction again and we will find the camaraderie and neighbourhood vibe that was lost in the destruction of established places. I don’t know. I hope so. I could leave, find another spot in the city, but in the end it is still convenient for me to live here. Some of us have reconvened in other spots, making them our homes. I have made some new friends and miss some of my old ones who left. We keep in touch via Facebook, a like and comment here or there, communication most likely fading to nothing over time.

I still miss her. I have heard rumours of her traveling to different places, a friend bumped into her in Texas of all places. I have heard that she seemed happy, free, and in love with someone. I wish her all the best. I wish I could call her, ask her to send me some of her courage. I wish I could listen to her stories, imagine myself on the road, meeting people, stopping for a few weeks or months and then packing up again, ready for a new adventure. Maybe I just need to bite the bullet and buy a car. One step towards making my way out of this street and this current life. Or maybe I will continue to stand here and watch them rebuild the street, one brick at a time.

__________

I had heard stories but I didn’t really believe them until I walked down the street myself. The ten years that I had spent there seemed to have dissipated into something from my imagination. Only 3 years gone by and nothing was as it was. I didn’t even recognize half of the block when I turned onto it, my feet so used to walking that route that they fell into pace without a request. I stopped, slightly bewildered. Where was home now? After a loop of cities and states, I was finally back, ready to really stick my heels in. No more hovering and waiting, no more worrying about being ready to face the future. But how could I do that now?

Had I been wrong to cut off communication, to leave my digital life and phone number behind? Would it have been better to maintain friendships over the phone and the internet, sending photos and text messages from my new homes? Would I have found it a little easier to bury my cat if I had been able to call someone who knew me a little better than the regular from the random bar I had worked in for three weeks? I don’t know. All I knew was that I had come back looking for a friendly face and instead a grey building was staring back at me. Maybe if I closed my eyes the building would melt away and my old block would reappear, happy and bustling around my weary feet. Please, don’t let me have come back for nothing. I have nowhere left to run to. 

__________

There she was, just standing there, across the street. A little thinner, her hair a little different, but it was definitely her. Her furrowed brow suggested bewilderment and concern, and she seemed slightly fragile, as if that armour she used to constantly wear had finally failed her and fallen off, tired of being dragged around with no rest. I breathed a sigh of relief. My waiting and watching had not been in vain. 

Short Story: Of Hearts and Sea Glass

Written a couple of years ago and loosely based on events that happened 10 years ago, this one always reminds me of days spent living by the sea in a hot country.

Of Hearts and Sea Glass

The last time he saw Monica was when her bus pulled away from the station in Eilat. He stood there watching the bus drive off towards the moshav in the desert, the same moshav they had both left 5 days before. The sun hurt his eyes, even through his sunglasses, but he forced himself to keep looking at the bus until it just turned into road and sand. She had left him.

Or had he left her? Maybe they had just left each other, an unspoken mutual agreement that it was time to go their separate ways, Monica back to her family on the moshav before flying back to California, and Jules off to travel around Egypt for a while, alone. He could still taste their last kiss on his lips, and he could still remember every moment of the last night they had spent together in the little room not far from the beach.  There was no going back now, he had to move on and continue to look for the very same thing that had brought him to Israel the year before. If only he actually knew what exactly he was looking for he might be able to look in the right direction. Until then he was just going to have to keep going in different directions until he felt some kind of enlightenment. The desert, sex and drugs don’t always answer all questions, not for Jules anyway.

On their last night he asked her why she liked sleeping with him. Her body tensed and she turned her face towards the window, shrugged and said “I don’t know”. He tried to push her, get a real answer out of her, but she wouldn’t budge. He felt his eyes prickle, so he just pulled her close and breathed the soft clean smell of her hair. So many words that they just couldn’t say out loud to each other; she would never admit to him that she loved him, just as he would never admit that he loved her. He knew that everyone on the kibbutz considered them a couple, and that all the guys mainly disliked him because he came off as arrogant, but also because he was with Monica. Monica was good-looking, but once you got to know here she seemed to have a special power that drew you in and wouldn’t let you go. She was either oblivious to the power she had, or at least, scared of it and everything that it would bring. The walls that she built around herself every day were not indestructible, but they were strong. Jules tried, but he was also too tied up in his own problems that he didn’t have the strength to try hard enough.

They had walked along the beach in Eilat at night, and sat on the rocks after dinner, talking about their futures, alluding to meetings in England or France, saying that they would find a way to be together again after the summer. Different nationalities and visas and passports wouldn’t be a problem, they would get through any obstacles. The last time they made love they both had tears in their eyes and Jules held on to Monica’s waist and didn’t want to let go. When he woke up in the morning she was at the other side of the bed and he felt his stomach fall beneath him. He didn’t want her to be distant already, not while they still had a few hours together. She crept back into his arms and told him to hold her tight, one last time. She made him coffee and they swam in the Red Sea before making their way back to the bus station in silence. Her hand felt warm and calm in his, his little lifeline over the past eight months, the one who had always been there for him, despite the many times he had tried to hurt her.

He wouldn’t ever be able to forget the way she looked at him when she said goodbye. Her eyes had always said everything that her voice could never say, but he only believed it all the last time she looked in his eyes. He let her leave without telling her that he loved her. She was leaving anyway, what did it matter now?

Monica watched him as the bus pulled out of Eilat station and continued to watch as he got smaller and smaller and then disappeared into the little oasis in the desert. The tears still wouldn’t come, although she knew they were not far away, but maybe she could hold them in a few more hours, once she was back on the moshav and when everyone was asleep in bed. Maybe she would take the dogs down to the edge of the moshav and smoke a little, watching the stars, and pretend that he was still there with her, talking to her, telling her that everything was better when she was there.

The first time Monica met Jules she was sitting at the table in front of her room on the kibbutz, drinking a coffee right after work. She was wearing khakis, work boots and a white tank top, and felt sweaty and tired. Emma walked him over and introduced him as the new volunteer from Colombia and asked Monica to show him the ropes. He seemed so arrogant that Monica showed him where everything was and left him to his own devices. There were enough lovely, gorgeous Israeli men around; she didn’t need an arrogant, good looking Colombian man bothering her too. A week later they were sleeping together. Some said it was inevitable, but Monica just knew that they were too similar to stay apart too long. But too similar to stay together too long too.

Monica wouldn’t say the words “last time” out loud as they acted like a weight in her belly, pulling her down into sadness. A love story could not end like this, not with a parting of ways in the desert. There had to be some kind of conclusion, another meeting, another night together in another place, another country. There was no way that this could all end with one simple goodbye. Any other thought made her want to die. In fact, the idea of life without Jules by her side was worse than being dead. He had broken her heart many times over the eight months they had spent together, but he had always managed to mend it again. An apologetic grin and a handful of heart-shaped sea glass one day, a “sorry” followed by a hug another day. A knock on her door and a night full of make-up sex and long talks by the sea. She knew she was the only one who could really help him get through whatever was haunting him, just as he was the only one who could help her break down the barriers she was always putting up.

There would always be other women for him, and other men for her, but they never lasted longer than a few days. They would always meet back together in the middle, Monica and Jules, making each other breakfast and dinner, washing each other’s clothes and dancing together all night long, sharing the bottle of vodka that always found itself coming their way. He would stare into her eyes and she never knew if he really loved her, or just loved being loved by her. Sometimes the latter was just enough, but mostly she needed more than that. She knew he loved her, but she also knew he would never fully accept it, not until he had found the answers to all of his own questions. Maybe he would find them now he was alone, or maybe he would just find another way to escape them again.

The only regret Monica felt was that she never told him how much she loved him, because she knew he would not tell her what he felt until she admitted her own feelings for him. He had tried, during their last night together, but she had kept them bottled inside. It was too early and too late, he was leaving her anyway, so what did it really matter? Or was she leaving him? They were leaving each other, alone, in the desert, in a foreign land.

For years they would both wonder what they had left behind there, under the sun in Eilat, and for years they would try to reach out over the oceans to say something meaningful, to say what they had wanted to say during that last night together. Maybe one day they will find each other in the desert again, their hearts in one hand, and the shared sea glass in the other.

Writing: Run, Run Away

I'm halfway through 3 different essays, one nostalgia piece and three music reviews but Luna isn't sleeping well this week which makes me even more tired than usual, so instead of writing I've been grouping up work from different times and trying to create something of a portfolio. Anyway, four years ago I was trying to write a novel. I got about a quarter into it when I realised that every "chapter" was a little too close to my life, and kind of drifted away, telling myself I would get back to it one day. Every "chapter" was based on a different time in my life, and in the end they were all supposed to come together as intertwined small stories. I never finished it, but there are some fun flashbacks to a time and place in the past. The teenage years are the best - it appears I was able to really tap back into my teenage self's mind, even at the age of 32! Some pieces are even more personal than this one, I may or may not post them all one day...

I loved that Metallica shirt...

Run, Run Away

Light my candles in a daze cos I found God – Nirvana, Lithium

Everything was running around and around in my head.

I fucked up my whole life. A year ago I was at school, responsible, not really missing class, getting good grades and basically just getting through it all. Now I am a high school drop-out, I don’t have a job and I spend my days hanging out with my friends, listening to music, getting high and writing poetry. I am not even looking for a job, all I want to do is stop existing in my own body and in my own head. I look in the mirror and I see the same face every single day. Boring big brown eyes, boring long brown hair, boring skinny body, boring, boring, boring. On really bad days I just want to cover myself up and hide behind my hair. Ripped jeans, old t-shirts, large sweaters and flannel shirts, scuffed Docs. On better days I will wear an old dress and make-up, with the trust-worthy scuffed Docs. Maybe the green ones if I am feeling extra happy. Black eyeliner and red nail polish. I know I’m not normal, but I just can’t force myself to try anymore. Maybe if I hide for long enough I’ll just disappear. Maybe if I get high enough I’ll fly off into a different world full of rainbows and butterflies. I doubt anyone will notice much anyway, I have just become a burden on others.

It nearly happened last week in the park. The usual crowd was there, hanging out, talking about everything and nothing. Some guy came up to us and asked us if we wanted to share a joint. He looked normal enough, so I said yes. He passed it around, some declined as they had to go back to class, but a few of us finished it off. Next thing I know I am lying down in the grass in a haze of bliss. The sun was shining on my face and I could hear voices in the background, but I felt soft and fuzzy, and on another plane. All feeling in my body left me, except for a perfect feeling of numbness, just perfect. That state that I always want to be in but can never find. Well that was it. I suppose people tried to move me, but I was in another world, a world I had no intention of leaving. Then my mum turned up and literally carried me home with someone else and put me on my bed – I barely remember that, except I think that I was laughing because my legs wouldn’t hold me upright. I could hear everything Mum and Grandma were talking about in the kitchen, but I couldn’t move from my blissful haze. Then I got up and had a cup of coffee and acted like the normal human being I am not. And I didn’t even get in trouble for it. I suppose Mum isn’t going to yell at me for something that she knows I am going to do again anyway. I’ll just make sure to never smoke with that guy again, because as much as I want to be away from reality, I can’t do that to my mum. If that was heroin I want it again and I never want it again.

I get so angry at myself and the world around me. A few weeks ago I had a bad day and I just wanted everyone to leave me alone in peace, to sit on my windowsill and listen to Nirvana, smoke cigarette after cigarette and dream of another life. But instead I had to sit down to dinner and listen to my sister talk about her new boyfriend and go on about school and have to answer my mum when she asked me what I had been up to all day. I wasn’t really going to say that I spent hours dreaming about moving to Seattle and marrying Kurt Cobain who had miraculously reappeared from the dead, divorced Courtney Love and fallen madly in love with a much more beautiful version of myself. So I just mumbled something unintelligible and pretended to eat my pasta. My sister started asking Mum for some money and then went on to make some sarcastic comments how I wasn’t even doing anything to earn any money and I still got everything I wanted. I couldn’t help it… Up went my fork and slammed straight down onto her hand, and up went my glass and smashed against the tile floor. I screamed something along the lines of “Fuck you all I hate you!”, grabbed my jacket, cigarettes and keys and legged it out of the house. I had no idea where I was going, but I wasn’t going back. Ever. I wandered around for a while, crying silently, then called a friend from a telephone booth by the park. She couldn’t really help, seeing as her parents were listening in, and to be honest I don’t think she really understands the depth of everything I have gone through over the past few months, few years even. It’s not her fault, I haven’t explained much of my life story to her. The less people know the less they feel sorry for me. Things are better kept bottled up inside rather than out there in the wild unknown. People use this type of information against you, or they treat you differently. I don’t want to stand out and I don’t want to fit in either. I don’t know what I want anymore. In any case it isn’t here and no one can help me. I stayed at another friend’s house and went home in the morning. She called my mum to let her know I was allright, even though I told her that she should just keep them guessing… But Mum was already worried enough, so I suppose that’s how it should be. I scream and cry and mess up and then apologise and am forgiven. I feel allright for a few days, even happy sometimes, and then it happens again. I’m a mess, and really a waste of space.

I picked up a knife yesterday and spent 30 minutes contemplating it from all angles. It was a big knife, and sharp enough to draw enough blood in order to die. I thought about how my father must have contemplated ending his life and wondered how long he had thought about it. Did he think it over for days or weeks beforehand? Did he make a conscious decision on how he was going to perform his final act on earth, or did he act on a whim? Did he just wake up and do it? Did he even think of his kids when he decided he had had enough? Did he shoot up on enough heroin to not feel the pain, or was he sober and completely aware of his actions? I turned the knife around in my hands and felt more and more agitated when the phone rang. It was Alicia, telling me she had a feeling I wasn’t doing too well and had left school and was on her way to get me out of the house. Such good friends are special. I just want to feel numbness. Not death, not pain, just numbness. Drugs and alcohol are a safer and easier bet. Nothing like the gentle numbness of good hash, the floaty feeling, and the heavy eyelids closing, surrounded by music and soft voices.

Poor thing, poor thing
Do you have a sister?
Would you lay your body
Down on the tracks for her? – Belly, Someone To Die For

Hash brings happiness and sleep, alcohol brings silliness and joy. I can never mix the two as the point is to disappear into a different dimension of life, not spend my time puking in the toilet bowl. I learnt that lesson well, if you don’t mix then you outlast everyone. Weak stomachs don’t enjoy too much of a variety of good things, but if you only do one kind of good thing you can do as much of it as you want. Yes, I will drink you under the table, and yes I will continue to drink long after you have finished. I don’t need to stop, it’s not like anyone really cares anyway. When I drink I feel free. When I drink I feel like I can be part of the world, talk to people, dance for hours on end, and write lyrics to songs that I may compose one day. Most days I feel like I can be myself without having to worry about people talking about me behind my back. I can actually talk to people I have just met without thinking I sound like an idiot. I feel so much stronger and ready to face this world I am part of without wanting to be part of it. I wish I could feel like this all of the time, just naturally. Sometimes I do, but I can never count on those sunny days, and at the moment they are so rare that I feel they will never come back. So give me all of the substances I can find because I need them to exist right now.

I feel ugly and stupid. Technically I know that I am neither, but I just can’t get myself to actually believe it. Why would anyone be interested in me anyway? Who really cares to hear me talk about Russian literature and how beautiful it is, or how Bikini Kill have affected my life? Who wants to hear me talk about my obsession with the French Resistance during WW2 and how I feel like I was part of it in a former life? I like to think I was like Jacqueline, my favourite character in Marge Piercy’s Gone To Soldiers. Strong, beautiful and so loyal she would fight through all dangers to protect those she loved. I want to strive to be like that, but I am too scared. I rebel against everything and then hide when I feel like my inner self is becoming too strong. I constantly battle between my shyness and my outgoing real self. Can one not live with the other? Why can’t I just let what is inside stomp the shy part out? I’m just too scared to let go of these walls. They have protected me from everything since, well, since forever.

I’m only 17 for fuck’s sake! Some days I feel like I have seen and lived through so much that I don’t know what else I can be put through. Death and violence and hatred and love and joy and pain and fear. Religions and prayer and different countries and different languages and different countries. I’ve read so many books and have so many more to read. I write and write and destroy most of what I write. Who cares about poems full of questions and dark images and death? I’ll never be as good as Baudelaire or Rimbaud so why even try? What are normal 17 years olds supposed to be doing? School and boyfriends and music and hanging out with friends? I just left school but I have boyfriends, listen to music constantly, go and see bands, get thrown around the mosh pit, drink, smoke a lot of hash and Marlboro Lights and hang out with my friends wherever we feel like meeting. Church steps, music store, café, park… Anywhere where we can sit and talk for hours. I sometimes like my boyfriend, I sometimes think I could love him, but he tends to annoy me after a while, especially when he tells me how much he loves me. How on earth can he think he loves me when I am such a mess inside and out? Does he not see what he is getting himself in to? How could I even love anyone else when I don’t even love myself. Most days I literally hate myself! Most days I wake up crying and wish I didn’t exist anymore. How can I make this better? I feel so old and angry and hurt and just want it all to go away. I’m just tired of being inside my brain all of the time.

Pigalle, Paris. Coffee, cigarette, writing. Happy to see that my style hasn't changed in 19 years.

Writing: An Evolution of Love

I used to write a journal. Now I hammer out mini stories and pages on real-life experiences and feelings on my laptop and save them away in a folder for future reference. I usually forget about them for a while, and sometimes, over time, the stories fit together like a written jigsaw puzzle. The following four stories were each written at the exact moment they happened, and together form an evolution of some sort, a story that is still in writing.

Just One Drink After Work

“You tell me you don't love me over a cup of coffee, And I just have to look away, A million miles between us, Planets crashing to dust, I just let it fade away” – Garbage, Cup of Coffee

Although it was me telling you that this wasn’t going to work out, over a pint of Guinness, and you telling me that you just wanted to see me happy, and if that meant me being alone or with another man, then that was what needed to happen. Then we both cried and hugged and decided that we could spend one more night together before it was all over, one more night where we held each other tightly, one more day spent cuddling and laughing before it was time to let go. And yes, it’s been a few days, and yes, we see each other at work, but it’s still hard. I do miss you, I do miss you holding me tight and telling me you love me and that there is no one else that makes you feel the way I do. But we have to be strong, we have to pull through this, I have to go and figure out what I really want from my life and you need to do the same. Maybe this is just a break and that next week we will be right back where we started again. But what I haven’t told you is that I am late, and I need to bite the bullet and take this test, hoping and praying that it is negative.

It first happened months ago. A group of us went to a random bar in the East Village after work, and after multiple beers and shots we ended up kissing in the bar, in front of everyone. You stayed with me that night, and I was adamant it wouldn’t happen again. We had obviously been attracted to each other for a while before this happened, we would chat and talk about music and life in general. But the whole Valentine’s Day incident started a slow running roller coaster ride that neither of us could stop, especially when it gained momentum and started speeding down hills and climbing back up other ones. There is something to say about feeling lonely and knowing that there will always be someone to answer your calls, at whatever time of day or night (and this works both ways). But were we just lonely or was it more than that at this point?

I didn’t want a secret relationship with you, and I didn’t want a relationship with someone I worked with. I resisted and told myself I wasn’t falling in love, and you just waited patiently, confused about why, but still there. And neither of us seemed to give up; I knew the passion between us was like a fire that couldn’t be stomped out just like that. I don’t know why I am always trying to run away, but that is the story of my life. Protect myself from anything that may end in sadness.

For the past month or so things have started to change. We have spent a lot of nights together, drinking, hanging out, going on “adventures” to different places, seeing different things. Laughing and having fun, you carrying me home when I was too drunk to walk, me making sure that I got you home when you were too drunk to make sense. You looking after me when my cat passed away, and telling me to not cry anymore because you couldn’t stand seeing me so sad. Us hiding away in our favourite secret bar after work, keeping up our secret relationship, although everyone knew something was going on, even if they couldn’t actually confirm it. There was something that tied us together, looks, smiles, and a force that neither of us could push away, not right then. But then it all became too much for me. You live life day to day; I need to plan some kind of future for myself. I was getting scared of what I was ultimately feeling and I realised I needed to free us both from this, so that we could move on in different directions, while still remaining friends and excellent work colleagues. But how?

I began to get upset and angry about everything, and you began to try to make me angry and hurt me. And it came to a point where neither of us were happy anymore, and if we didn’t sort it out we were both going to end up hating each other, which would make work the worst place on earth for both of us. So as the adults that we sometimes were we decided to talk about it properly, to part ways, to let each other go and to let our hearts fix themselves. I was surprised at how well we both reacted, and how well we have been keeping to our promise since. It helps that I haven’t been drinking this week, as it makes it easier to go straight home after work and not give in to the “one drink” which leads to three and then a cab home together and sometimes sex, sometimes not. I want to keep this momentum going, and not fail and fall into your arms again, as I have been doing over the past few months. You deserve so much better than this.

And so the test is positive. How did I get to the age of 35 without this ever happening, and now have to deal with this? And no, I cannot have a child and will not have a child right now. I feel so damn stupid. What on earth was I thinking?? So now I will have to go through another experience I have wanted to avoid for most of my adult life. This isn’t really an adventure, more like a nightmare while awake.

“All the lilies bloomed and blossomed, Wilted and they're shivering, I can't stop their withering, Oh, this world is a war” – Hole, Petals

One more cup of (herbal) tea

This time a few months ago I would usually wake up on Monday’s with a splitting headache and a nauseous stomach as well as achy legs. Two doubles followed by Guinness and multiple large shots of whiskey being the culprits. You can stop drinking for years but you never, ever forget what a hangover feels like, do you? That sick feeling that you did this to yourself, so there is no way you can’t wallow in it and feel sorry for yourself. You have to get up and walk out that door and function like a normal person at work, and hope that you make it through to the end of the night. Tomorrow will always be another day, a day when you will feel like yourself again. And then it all starts over, like a vicious circle you really don’t want to break, because it is way too much fun (until it becomes less fun, but that is an entirely different chapter, or book).

The last time I sat down to write an essay about life in general I had just taken a pregnancy test. A positive pregnancy test. A test so positive that the two lines appeared within a second of me peeing on the tip; telling me that I was under no circumstance not pregnant and that the achy boobs and the fact that literally anything could start tears rolling down my face at any given moment, were not just signs that I was going to have a really bad period, worse than I have ever had before. No, this wasn’t just a scare. I was really pregnant. And my first thoughts were “I can’t do this – please get this out of me as soon as possible – how can I have a child – I am never going to be able to do this!!!”.

Those thoughts lasted about 12 hours.

And now I am nearly 12 weeks pregnant, and my Monday mornings consist of me waking up with achy legs from the two doubles I did over the weekend and a bottomless pit of hunger because if I don’t eat every 4 hours of so my body screams at me for MORE. You know that type of hunger when you haven’t eaten for a day and your head hurts and you feel like you are going to collapse? Yes, that’s how I feel after four hours of not eating. Little fig-sized munchkin definitely has a voracious appetite! Which doesn’t bother me in the slightest because all this not drinking and not smoking and not going out is actually leaving me with spare money that I can spend on good food in restaurants. Eating out! FOOD. Everything tastes so much better and my sense of smell is so good that any type of fragrant smell makes me gasp and any type of slight stink makes me want to vomit. I’m so glad my near constant nausea has not lead to any vomiting, because if it had I would literally be stuck with my face in the toilet all day due to all of the strong smells I walk through. Take the subway, for example, at any given time there will always be the following in your car: someone smelling of BO, someone eating something that smells really strongly, someone who poured a bottle of perfume all over themselves and someone who bought a jacket at a secondhand shop and didn’t bother to have it dry-cleaned. Thankfully there are also bakeries and flowers and laundries and Lush shops and other places that smell so deliciously delicious that they counter the smell of garbage on the streets and the blocked drains after a rain storm and the smell of dust from all of the construction on the street. City smells… Nothing like them!

Six more months and I will give birth to a little boy or a little girl. My own child that I will love and care for and educate and promise to give as good of a life as I can to. A little being that is half of me and half of him that I already love more than anything or anyone I have ever loved in my life. Over the next six months I am going to get bigger, and happier, and grumpier and more and more tired of the city. I am going to continue being a vegetarian (I mean it’s been 17 years already), as the idea of ingesting any meat or fish still makes me want to vomit, but I am a lot more aware of what I eat nowadays and what I should be eating more of. And I also had forgotten how happy I was when I was sober (minus the times that I felt alienated and alone because all of my friends were out drinking and partying). I am so much more productive, and sleep better and just am generally happier. Of course, this time round I am sober for a very different reason than I was last time, and it makes it all the more exciting and important. Right now in my life there is nothing more important than this little munchkin that is growing inside of me. I’ve also noticed that my bullshit acceptance tolerance factor has lowered itself so much that I don’t accept any. Not anymore. Either I will walk away or just open my mouth and tell you quite plainly to stop bullshitting and to leave me alone. It’s quite liberating, this telling people exactly how I feel and think about things. I should have tried it much earlier!

Once again, herbal tea has replaced the post-work beer and shot, and bed with a book (and crackers and crisps and string cheese) has replaced hanging out until 4am. And nothing feels better than sipping that chamomile tea, knowing that this is life as it is going to be for the foreseeable future (minus the crying and the lack of sleep that will come in six months). To be honest the whole idea of even being in a bar at 4am just made me feel like vomiting. Thanks morning-which-should-be-all-day sickness!

Love is Everything

This is the story of a story that could have never happened, or at least could have not panned out the way it did, and still is. One day, last Valentine’s Day to be more precise, you and I had a night that we thought would only be that: one night. Instead it turned into a few nights here and there, and then more frequent nights, and then days, and then it was us. You and me together, for real, in a proper relationship.

I can’t imagine not waking up next to you every morning and tickling you so that you wake up too and kiss me and tell me that you love me. I can’t imagine going to sleep at night without you holding me tight and making sure I dream special dreams. I can’t imagine spending any holiday without you. And I can’t imagine life without the rapidly growing little human that we created inside me. And then life together with our little daughter, loving her and loving each other.

Who would have thought last year that by Thanksgiving of this year I would not only be telling a man that I loved him and meaning it with all my heart, but that I would also be pregnant and so very, very, very happy?

Who would have thought that Christmas would have been spent together, that you would bring me a tree home late at night as a surprise and that I would show you all my own personal Christmas traditions? This one was just a taste for all those that will come in the future together: you, me and our child.

This is not a story that can fit on one page, two or even three. This is the beginning of a life time of stories and anecdotes and images and changes. This is one that will be updated as life goes on, with additions and departures, with moves and with aging. This is the story of two lives and then three and maybe more, together under one roof and bound by something that had up to now only played hide and seek with me. What used to be torturous and unfair is now what makes my heart beat every day.

Our next steps are being created together, a home for us and a home for our child, a place of peace and quiet and music and art and creativity, a place where we can be ourselves, together or alone. Space that will be for everyone. Clean and pretty and happy and most importantly: ours.

It’s finally time to live life to its full extent: no regrets and no more running away. This is what it was always meant to be like; it just took me a while to make my way here.

One more cup of very strong coffee please

It’s been exactly a year. Exactly a year since I had that dream that I was having a baby, a year since I woke up and ran to Walgreens in my pyjamas. A year since I went to Planned Parenthood and listened to the nurse give me the results of my test. A year since my life turned upside down and most definitely for the better. Our little Luna is now four months old and I actually can’t imagine my life, our life, without her in it. I wake up in the morning thinking of her, I go to sleep thinking of her, I dream of her, and every waking moment is with her. I don’t WANT to be without her. She’s our little wonder, our munchkin, our actual reason for living.

I say “our life” because that is what it is. Me, you, her, us. We now form a unit, a united front, together as one. I don’t care if that sounds soppy or silly, it’s just what it is. And we couldn’t be happier! This is what it was always meant to be like. And I really, really hope that everyone finds this in their lifetime, because everything I may have lived before this just pales in comparison.

Short Story: An Angel Passes By

As I am (slowly) putting my website together and applying for freelance writing jobs I have been going through a lot of my writing and trying to group everything together. I noticed that I hadn't posted this story, which is strange as it quite naturally goes with Autumn's Place and Of Instability and Growing Roots. I wrote them all about the same time and with the same frame of mind.
In any case, everyone needs a Marlena in their lives, just to make everything a little brighter and happier. Not long after I write this one Bat For Lashes released her last album, with the song Laura on it, and it really made me think of my own Marlenas. Cherish those friends forever.

An angel passes by ("un ange passe") is a French expression that always takes me back to moments in the dead of the night during my late teens with the friends I grew up with, that moment when everyone goes quiet, contemplating their own thoughts, and then all go back to their conversations at the same time. That silence that doesn't feel uncomfortable, but warm and fuzzy. These are the people that will always be with you, your own personal angels in your lives. I dedicate this one to those who aren't here anymore.

An Angel Passes By

She stood there in her little babydoll dress, her long, skinny arms wrapped tight around her body, as if she were protecting herself from an invisible force that was about to hit at any moment. Her eyes stared wide into the distance, somewhere away from what we could all see around us and her forehead was creased into a frown of concentration. This is always the image I will have of her in my mind, touchable but unapproachable. Surrounded by a ring of fire keeping her away from the rest of us.

She stood there in her skinny black jeans and black velvet jacket, cigarette smoke encasing her body and a bright smile on her face when she recognized a friendly face approaching her. Nothing fake about her smile – once bestowed upon you, you felt like you were the center of attention for a minute; that no one else existed but you in the world. There are so few people on this earth who have the ability to make you feel this way, that when you meet them you cherish their love for life, long after they have moved on to other places and other people. This is the other image I have of her, happiness and sadness, encased in that body with the beautiful face.

Some people leave and their memories fade over time, until they are remembered only when a photo is found, or a random memory pops into your mind. Other people leave a special legacy behind, one that cannot be erased by time, or alcohol, or drugs or age. All I need to do is close my eyes and conjure up her face and all the emotions I felt every time I was in her presence, even after all these years. Her foot prints can be found all over the world, in the many countries that she traveled to and the many people she met and loved along the way. She was never famous, she never felt exceptional in any way, but she simply made everyone she came into contact feel special for a few moments, and those few moments always lasted forever. Some days I walk through the streets of Manhattan and see a swish of long, blonde hair and a cigarette in a hand and my heart stops for a second. Maybe it is her? Maybe she is still here, walking and talking and dreaming and crying and smiling and just simply present. Maybe I can have one last hug, and this time I will know it will be the last and I will remember it forever. I never knew the last time she hugged me would be the last time I felt her touch and smelt her shampoo and perfume floating around me. If I had known, the last time I told her I loved her I would have looked her in the eyes for more than two seconds and would have made sure she knew that I meant it with all my heart. I hope she knew that before she left.

Marlena was one of those people that you felt had always been in your life, however long you may have known them. She arrived in my life randomly one night, a friend of a friend drinking in a bar that we didn’t often frequent. I didn’t really talk to her that night, she was wrapped up in a conversation with another person who didn’t want to surrender her attention, and then she left abruptly, hugging everyone as she made her way to the exit. A few days later I bumped into her on the street, and she smiled at me and invited me to grab a late lunch with her at her favourite restaurant. She gradually introduced me to all of the people she knew in the neighbourhood and I became part of the family of people working and living there. Marlena always had time for a chat, however tired or overworked she was. She had the ability to make me laugh and smile, even when I knew she was having a rough day. And when she was tired or unhappy, all I wanted to do was make her feel better, a small gesture, a hug, a cup of tea at 3am. Anything to get that look of pure gratitude she would give you on those days. 

There are no perfect human beings. If perfection really existed it would be a flat, boring piece of blank wood. Imperfections create the depth that makes someone human. As much as Marlena was an amazing person, she was definitely not perfect. She kept herself distant from certain things, and locked away parts of herself deep inside so that you could not even see a glimpse of them in her eyes. She would turn away when someone tried to get too close and shut down, wary of giving herself fully to another, wary of being hurt again, and having to deal with pain, again. But she would cry openly and sometimes let you into what her life had been and what she wanted to hide from. What she had finally got over and what she was still going through. She could be as stubborn as a bull and would butt heads with people with her strong opinions. I could not even count the amount of times I had seen her jump up and smash her fist on the bar shouting “but you aren’t listening to me!!!” and stomp off outside for another cigarette, ranting under her breath about idiocy and hypocrisy. But two minutes later she would be back, buying rounds of shots for everyone and laughing at the argument that had taken place moments before. There was never a boring moment in her presence.

Marlena taught me how to find the perfect beaches near the city, wild places where the waves would drag in shells and crabs and city trash, where you could sleep at night if you felt like it and you knew you were safe. She showed me special places in the city where the walls were painted with so much art you could spend hours just looking at them. I taught her where to find the best bagels and where to go to feel like you were in the middle of the countryside right in the city. She would sometimes disappear for a few days and apologise when she reappeared, always saying she needed time away, time to herself, time to finish a song, time to listen to her own voice in her head, away from others that were always crowding it. She would wrap her arms around herself and frown worries away until she could smile lightly again. Some days I would walk into her work and see how tired she was despite her smile and other days she would jump up in happiness and throw herself into my arms, a little ball of energy that couldn’t stop itself from showing all her emotions. She was just a normal girl, but one who created a special place in her heart for everyone.

“I think it’s time for a pint – who’s in?”

“Marlena – it’s only Noon! We have stuff to do today!”

“I said a pint, not 20, and I could really murder a Guinness right now. We can have it with lunch, that way we won’t feel like we are just drinking. And let’s call Robert and Liza and Sandy and the rest so they can join us!”

“OK – and here goes our productive Monday. Let the fun and games begin!”

Never a boring moment. Being friends with Marlena meant being friends with everyone she knew. And being friends with everyone she knew meant that you never really felt alone anymore. Some people you liked less than others, some you felt great connections with while others remained acquaintances, but everyone had something in common: Marlena. She loved to be surrounded by friends and watch them interact and be around each other. She loved to try and match make but hated it when people tried to do it to her. She didn’t get angry often, but when she did you could never see it coming until her rage had broken free. After you saw that you tried hard not to cross her or upset her. No one wanted to be on the other side of that!

When I put her in a cab that night and hugged her, telling her I loved her, she asked me to text her when I got home, which was always the last question she asked all her friends when they left the bar. Twenty minutes later I got her text saying she was home safe and getting into bed. She never made it out of bed alive. Her heart just stopped beating, gave up and sent her off to another place. There was no real medical explanation for this happening at such a young age, so we all ended up deciding that she was needed more somewhere else, and that she had given us everything we needed and everything she had to give. That doesn’t mean that I wasn’t devastated… It took me months and months to stop waking up crying and looking at pictures of her. I found it hard to walk down the streets where she used to always be, hard to be in places where I always wondered if she would miraculously walk through the front door. All of her friends banded together and talked about her and stayed friends, but it was always surrounded by sadness. Her presence was always around, but her voice could not be heard anymore.

Even now, years later, we always hold a Marlena party, a night out together where we drink pints, do shots in her honour and get completely drunk and silly. There are people who just won’t go away, even if they are dead and long gone. Marlena is one of those, an angel passing through lives, making them just that little bit better than they were before she arrived. Cherish those Marlenas as they are special people that may not be able to stay long. 

Catch some of their essence before it drifts away elsewhere – it will stay with you for life.

Short Story: 9/11 - The Day the World got Darker

I don't know why I have never posted this one, but it was written years ago one September, as I remembered what I was doing on 9/11/01. I will never forget that day, nor how it made me feel for a few years after that. It's important that we always remember this day, for the horrific acts that happened, for the people who perished, for the heroic people who ran into the buildings to save lives, and for the aftermath of the attacks, all over the world. I know that I will never forget.

9/11 - The Day the World got Darker

It was just another day really… No classes to attend, no teaching classes to give either, so I was just sitting at home pretending to put together some research points towards my MA thesis, but really scrolling through the web on my slow dial-up connection looking for something interesting to read, and watching Derrick on the TV. Nothing better than a daytime German detective show dubbed in French to pass the time.

Until the phone rang.

“Have you seen what’s happening??

Attentats

!!”

“What on earth are you talking about? I’m watching Derrick and drinking coffee. Want to meet up and hang out?”

“Put the fucking TV on. Someone has bombed the World Trade Center in New York. LOOK!!”

I groaned and changed the channel and then just sat there in silent shock with the receiver stuck to my ear. All I could see were images of smoke billowing from one of the tallest buildings in the world. I couldn’t even register what the reporter was saying, I couldn’t even read the words that were flying by on the bottom of the screen, but it appeared that everyone was in the same type of shock and no one really knew what was happening.

“Can you please come over right now? This is scaring the shit out of me and I don’t want to be alone here.”

“I’m on my way, will be there in 10 minutes.”

I sat there with the receiver still in my ear and waited. No one knew what was happening; the journalists were trying to scramble together as much information as possible and everyone was obviously in a state of shock and fear. And then all hell broke loose, a silence, and then the reporter’s voice saying that it appeared that another plane had crashed into the second tower.

The moment that that happened the world knew that this wasn’t a freak accident. Two planes flew directly into the WTC towers and exploded inside. I sat glued to the TV, trying to make sense of it all. There was no way on this earth that two aeroplanes had flown directly into the Twin Towers by accident. It was too precise, too calculated. I let my friend in, he made some coffee, and we continued to watch the news together, in silence. There was a hush, a chain of images and then the reporter’s voice, trembling slightly, announcing that there were two more planes in the air somewhere, two planes that had turned off their radios and were most probably heading for the Pentagon and the White House.

Then a plane crashed into the Pentagon. The images on the TV screen hovered between the Twin Towers with the smoke billowing out of them and the Pentagon where there were also clouds of smoke appearing from what looked like the center, and the reporter who was obviously as shaken as we were, civilians all over the world watching in horror as the biggest terrorist act ever carried out was taking place, live, before our eyes. Three planes crashed into important American landmarks, a fourth plane still in the air, possibly heading for the White House. All of those people dead and dying, all of those people trapped above the flames and the smoke, waving for help out of the windows so high up in the sky. I saw something black fall from a window, and then another, and realized that people were jumping to their deaths rather than waiting to burn or die of asphyxiation. There were no real words to describe all of the feelings that were going through my body at once, pain, sadness, confusion, disgust, anger and also the feeling that this couldn’t be real.

Then there was a rumble and all voices stopped talking, and as if in silence, one of the towers just collapsed into a huge cloud of dust and debris. It didn’t fall down sideways, but floor by floor, as if a huge hand had come out of the sky and shoved it down from above. I say in silence, but only because I heard silence in my head, the world had stopped and the impossible had taken place. 

“All of those people!! Oh my God, all of those people!! How could they survive with THAT falling on them??”

And then the same rumble, and the collapse of the second tower. I just hoped that those who were trying to escape the second tower had made it out, because all that was left was clouds and clouds of smoke and dust. The TV went silent for a second, while the commentators tried to gather their composure and explain what had happened right there, in Manhattan. Visible on screens worldwide, the entire world population had been able to see a terrorist act gone completely right, probably even better than had been expected in their wildest dreams. More images on the screen, and then the reporter giving us news of a plane that had gone down in Pennsylvania, probably the last hijacked flight that had fortunately not met its intended destination.

I continued to watch the scenes, listen to the words, hoping that it was all a huge farce, a prank to see how gullible we were. I was speechless. My friend refilled my coffee cup a few times and went out to buy cigarettes, as I couldn’t move. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t really formulate any sentences. I realized I was in shock and then felt terrible, as I was lucky to be thousands of miles away, in the comfort of my little apartment in France. But then again, how safe was I? How safe were any of us anymore? Planes had been hijacked before, not one, but four in one go, right under the eyes of the American officials. Before this plane hijackings were used as a way to extort some kind of deal, money or other (apart from the Lockerbie bombing). When had hijacked planes been used as deliberate weapons to kill? The name Osama Bin Laden was said over and over again, as many times as the images of the attacks spiraled over the screen. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t move, I couldn’t even think straight. I finally got through to my mother in California, and she had only heard the news when she got to work, had been spared the horror of seeing it all happen on live TV. I saw those people die when they jumped from the top of the towers. Flying through the air, all hope lost.

I continued to watch through-out the night, fell asleep to the same images that I woke up to. All regular TV shows had been suspended and the news reports kept coming in the rest of the next day. Death tolls and interviews and pictures of women running for their lives, covered in dust and debris. Statements from different terrorist groups, images of people weeping and people cheering, a collective feeling of horror in most places, chants of joy in certain countries. Death is death. It kills you just the same. I couldn’t wrap my head round the enormity of the acts, the change that they brought to the entire world. The day those planes crashed into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon, and into a field in Pennsylvania, was the day the world changed. No country was safe anymore, and no country would ever be safe again. Ever. During the Cold War we feared nuclear attacks, but we also knew that they would never really happen, neither the US nor the USSR wanted to commit that much damage and death. Not really. But on September 11

th

2001, a new evil emerged from the darkness and bared its teeth to the world. There would be no warning, no amnesty and no guilt. You were going to die, wherever the fuck you may find yourself in the world. 

I lost the little hope and optimism I had left that day. For weeks afterwards I was obsessed with watching the footage, over and over again. I followed the war in Afghanistan with baited breath, with some anger that it had taken such a terrible act to actually care about what was going on in Afghanistan. I think that I couldn’t help feeling like it was too little and too late. I started to stay in as much as possible, just in case something else happened. The TV was on day and night, with me waiting

for the next attack, the next images of death and destruction and hatred and sorrow. A plane disintegrated above Queens and all of the national TV channels went on high alert until it was determined that it was just a “regular” crash, based on some kind of technical fault. Engine failure.

I started suffering from brain failure. My slow decline into depression that had started months before took a nosedive, right down into the pits of the dark world that surrounded me. There was no hope left inside. Food tasted bland, and I couldn’t concentrate on anything apart from the news, terrible chick lit novels and my thesis. Sylvia Plath? Why not, I mean I was more than willing to crawl right under the bell jar with her, snapping it tightly shut. We could breath the same foul air together, but at least we were protected from the outside world. Three CDs on eternal rotation on my CD player: Tim Buckley’s Greatest Hits, Tom Wait’s Used Songs and Bob Dylan’s Desire. A Tim Buckley cassette compilation I had made was in the shower, nothing else. The Cure’s Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me on my record player in the living room. I couldn’t drink alcohol anymore, it just made me want to vomit. My dreams just turned to nightmares, so it was better off I didn’t really try to sleep, just toss and turn and think of death and how much warmer it felt than life.

How can something so much bigger than you, something that effects the world as a whole, something that triggered events that would never end, wars that had no meaning, more death, more hatred, more despair, affect one person in such a way? Why did

not let it change me for the better, why did I crawl away into a hole and hope that I could hide away in death, because life had no more happiness to offer? I felt like I was wasting away, I withdrew myself from my friends and stayed in my apartment, cuddling my cat and watching the news. There was no more hope. What happened to the girl who was an idealist? Who lobbied for the rights of the Tibetan people in front of cinemas and bars? What happened to the girl who tried to talk to everyone about the fate of the Afghan women under the Taliban? What happened to the girl who cared, who wanted to make a change, who wanted to make things better?

She lost hope. The day those planes crashed into those buildings was the day I finally lost the will to survive.

“Want to go out for a drink? I’m out with the boys at the usual bar, everyone is asking about you and is wondering why they haven’t seen you for a while.”

“Ah… I’m in my pyjamas. It’s too late, I have class tomorrow.”

“No you don’t! You have one class a week this semester, and don’t use the thesis excuse, I saw how far along you are. Take a night off, come out and have fun. Please. I miss you. We all miss you.”

“Don’t just say that to make me feel better love, I know you will all have fun without me. I… Just… I just can’t right now. I don’t feel well, I feel like I may puke and just want to stay in bed. I love you.”

“I love you too… I’m worried. I’ll bring you coffee in the morning.”

Click. 

What did I say? Lost all hope.

Image taken from the web - could not find the copyright as it appears on so many different sites.

The Adventures of Luna

I always thought that she would outlive us all. Stupidly maybe, seeing as she really was only a cat, and the average lifespan of a domestic indoor cat ranges from 12 to 15 years. But Luna was more than your average cat, and always seemed timeless, living through more than some human beings live through in their lives. She was born in some place that only she knew about, abandoned by her mother and left, obviously the runt of the litter, to die alone. She was found by a friend of mine’s mother, and placed in an incubator. Thirteen years ago I received a phone call from my friend saying he had found a tiny black cat with green eyes, and would I like to meet her… Three hours later I brought my little Luna home to the apartment I shared with my best friend Maud in Grenoble. I had to feed her kitty milk from a little bottle and teach her how to eat. I had to teach her how to find and use her litter tray and during the first few days I had to try to coax her out of the most impossible hiding places (under the stove being one example). On the third night I had nearly given up hope that she would ever come out, and I switched my bedroom light off and went to bed. Four minutes later she crept into my room, snuggled on my arm and from that moment in time it really was unconditional love.

She never really learnt how to meow, but purred louder than most cats, and would even purr in her sleep, as long as she was next to me. As she grew she would become more and more adventurous (walking along the railing of my fifth floor balcony or finding a way on to the roof to chase birds for example).  When I took her to the vet to get all of her vaccinations she decided he was in good need of a scratch and that the hiding spot behind his computer was a better place than his examination table (and she was right, he was an asshole anyway). Whenever I was sad or depressed she would curl up on my lap and stare at me until I smiled. We would dance around my apartment to the Sisters of Mercy and Bauhaus, and she would sit with me and my friends while we got drunk listening to Cure records in my living room. 

Then I decided that I was quite over living in France for a while. My MA had been completed, all of my family was either in California or England, and I needed time away from everything. So I shipped all of my belongings over to my mum’s place in California, got Luna a good travel case and set off for the US. I bawled my eyes out at Charles de Gaulle airport when I had to hand her over at check-in, and didn’t sleep a wink during the 11 hour flight, thinking that she had died in the bottom of the plane. I made a vow that if she ever flew again she would be with me in the cabin. Of course she made it over alive, a little shaken up and a little annoyed at me for abandoning her, but she settled in very well in the house in California. She finally had the chance to explore the great outside, fighting with cats twice her size, at one time challenging a huge black and white snake that appeared in our back yard (at that moment I forgot my own fear of snakes and rushed out to grab her away from what could have been her death). She met up with her old friend and foe, Fury, my sister’s dog, and let herself be chased around the house until they both got bored of it and decided to live together peacefully by mainly ignoring each other. Although there were many times that I found her hiding on the stairs, waiting to catch Fury out with a hiss and a playful paw punch on her way down them.

In June of 2003 I had to leave the US for at least a year or risk being deported and not allowed back into the country. Not knowing where to go I decided to take up my aunt in Israel’s offer, and visit her for at least 3 months, and help her with her kids. I ended up staying there for over a year, and left Luna with my mum, knowing full well that she would be well looked after (although it broke my heart to leave her). She ended up becoming more aloof, going out into the wild for a few days on end, only coming back when she was hungry and in need of a good rest before her next adventure. Once I was back in California she hardly left the house again. By this time she had acquired a new enemy in the house, in the form of another cat called Muffin, an abandoned cat my mum and brother had adopted. While Luna had always held her own against other cats, Muffin proved to be another story. They hated each other from day one, and even when we tried all the tricks to get them to accept each other they didn’t. While Luna had been fine with Ludwig, her old friend in France (apart from the time that she hit him on the head with her paw, after that they were always together, cuddled up on my bed or chasing birds and flies), she never became friends with Muffin. In any case, Fury realised that she now had a more evil enemy in Muffin, and bonded with Luna. 

And then I had to leave once again. With no visa and no ability to work in the US I had to go back to Europe, this time to England, the one country where at the time all pets needed to be quarantined for 6 months on entry. There was no way I was subjecting her to that, so I left her in California once again. In the ten months I was in England I came back to visit once, for two weeks. The day before I arrived she came home for some food, but then disappeared. After two days I put posters up around the neighbourhood and on day three got a call saying that Luna was running around a backyard. I ran out, still in my pyjamas and flip flops and saw the little monster running through the green belt. She stopped when I called her name, and then ran off. I went home, saddened, until my sister called out to me to say that Luna was waiting patiently by the back door. For the rest of my stay she did not leave my side, only to go back to her adventures of neighbourhood cat queen when I left.

A few months later, Luna went away on another adventure, and stayed away so long that she had my mum worried. She finally crawled back home, dragging one of her back legs behind her. The vet ran tests and x-rays and the poor thing had severely torn ligaments in her back leg, with three options: amputation, surgery or a cast for a few months to see if she would heal naturally. While the vet kept pushing for amputation, after consulting with me my mum decided to go with the cast option. A few months later her leg was healed and she was able to jump up and down on things. At that point I finally had a visa to work in the States (albeit New York and not California) and I flew her back with me after spending Christmas with my family. She came to live with me in my tiny one bedroom apartment in Spanish Harlem, killed the mouse that had been living in the couch (the one I couldn’t kill because I hate mouse traps and refused to use poison because I knew Luna was going to be living there). From that moment onwards she never left me again. We moved to an even smaller apartment in the West Village, where she was more than happy to give up her outdoor adventures and stay inside, sleeping on my bed and waiting for me to get home from work or from my own adventures on the Lower East Side. 

A few years later we moved to a much bigger apartment in Bushwick, where she would wait for me to get home from work from her perfect spot on the couch from where she could watch the front door at all times. Her cat friend Ophelia would sometimes come to visit, and many friends would come over to cuddle her and listen to her purr. She loved people more than other animals, although I was always her first choice when it came to cuddling. My roommate once commented that it was as if she wanted to become part of me, never leaving my side and following me wherever I went, even waiting outside of the bathroom door while I showered. She never failed to jump on my bed and sleep next to me every night, even when she was annoyed at me for not coming home or for staying out too late. Her fur went from black to brown with age, but her eyes remained pure green, unless she was in a playful mood and they would turn yellow. She was always tiny, and put a little bit of weight on with age, but never had a weight problem that older, less active cats often experience. She never overate, always eating whenever she was hungry, and spent many a day sitting on the windowsill, watching the world go buy. We would always still dance to music together, and she would sit on my desk while I was writing, watching me put all of the thoughts and images that travelled through my head into words on paper. When my roommate adopted a dog (the lovely pitbull Doyle) they became fast (but secret) friends. I’m sure Luna was the only one to know Doyle’s past, his life before he came to live with us, and she knew that all he wanted was peace, as did she. I sometimes found them nearly curled up together on the couch, and they would touch noses in front of us on occasion. I’m glad she had a friend like Doyle in the last year of her life.

She never seemed to be unhappy, and I don’t think she suffered any illness or pain. One day I woke up and found that she had become an old lady practically overnight, the next day came home from work and she was gone, peacefully in her sleep. However heartbroken I still am, and still will be for a while, for the past 13 years I have had the sweetest, cutest, funniest and smartest little creature in my life, and I also know that I gave her a life that she probably wouldn’t have had if I hadn’t have adopted her. And nothing can take all of those memories away. I know that for a while I will still automatically check to see if her food and water bowls are full before I leave the house (and therefore leave the house with tears in my eyes), and also expect her to be at home waiting for me when I get in. Every morning I reach out for her when I wake up and then realize that she won’t be there or coming back. One day I will search for another cat to live with me, but for the time being I am going to learn to live without the little being who came everywhere with me.

However heartbreaking it is to lose a pet, the amount of love and joy they bring into a household makes it worth it all. 

The adventures of Luna… Two countries, two states, three apartments in NYC, two hurricanes, one near death experience (that I know of), many people friends, cat friends and dog friends. The little French cat who was raised in French, and to whom I spoke French to until she passed away. The little monster who peed on my roommates bed when she was pissed off (yes she wasn’t perfect) or who would leave me lovely fur balls as presents. The baby cat who continued to think I was her mother until her last day. I imagine that she is running around somewhere with Bella and all of the other pets that I have lost in my life, waiting for me to join her at some point in time.