salvaging the old

Looking back here are the posts worth keeping:

Friday, August 26, 2005

He's dead. You know he's dead. But sometimes you forget. Sometimes it's as if he never really existed; He gets ''backstalked'' behind the 15 page papers, your first layered cake, that big party, or the beginning of your adult life. It's not like that hole is filled in, that thing that's missing's not exactly replaced by something else. Those memories collect dust behind the mundane everyday ones that come along. Of stolen kisses, frustrated lazy summer days filled with nothing, thoughts of packing moving out, dorming, your mom's health (she is, thank goodness, alive atleast). But then you find a piece of paper from that very day and it's as if you've just come home from the cemetary; the dirt above his grave still fresh. But then you find your very own words declaring your love for the dearly departed and you realize and you feel and you hurt and the dust simply evaporates.

Monday, July 25, 2005

My mother traveled accross the world, left behind her familiar home, the protection of her older brother and native land to come here to this country where the poor become rich. All her prospects ignored at the drop of a hat for my sake, my promising future. Alone she struggled to support her rebellious child, this Westernized version of her that never ceases to cause her great stress. She was lost in this alien land without a husband to guide and protect her. I hope that I can, in the next six months, be worthy of her sacrifice.

Shahrin Ahsan, Zenith Poetry Submissions Lily Her jet black tresses that fall around her shoulders now smell of sweet red roses. She speaks in hushed tones which help me to fall asleep; flee to a far land. But I will never travel far without her scent lulling me to rest. The Bus Driver I pass him as I go to take my seat. The people around me are entranced by their newspapers, lattes, and headphones. The bus does not lurch from stop to stop so as not to shake the riders out of their spells; due to the control the driver has over his vehicle. His gray tousled beard along with his long aged hair gives him the appearance of Jesus. Eyes heavy with the weight of wisdom, open and close tediously. His face devoid of lines still do not fail to shows his age. The others walk past my gaze random articles jingling in their pockets. I know then that I must be moving on. No salutations pass my lips but with the clinking my fare is paid to him, I leave Jesus behind. Dusk The land is no longer ablaze; the heat has stopped radiating from the ground and causing people to retreat into their air conditioned cars and homes. The colors in the sky demur from becoming black but merely smudge together in a wonderful mural with streaks of misty purple clouds from a painter?s brush casually leaving a few lazy streaks on the canvas; signaling that Pheobus' steeds will finally rest for the night. The black outline of houses on their perfectly proportioned property in suburbia have squares and rectangles of light that reveal the people living inside: The woman in the first house has a date with the dishes; A lonely man holds a can of beer while sucked into the fluorescent TV So ends the day, in a state of calm, the breeze rocking the trees to sleep and soothes the burned skin of the people inhabiting their homes with open windows Afternoons With Grandfather On my cheek a lingering sweet kiss remained as a bit of my mother for me to keep before she departed. The sofa towered high above my head as I explored my home one intimidating inch at a time. My courageous adventure brought me to the feet of my grandfather whose face loomed high above my vision Soon I was seated across from him a board between us. He meant to teach me of a time long ago where fates were decided strategies plotted of feudal lords their ladies and soldiers all lined up to fight for the king. Enclosed in a box be it white or black ornate wooden pieces dulled with age. I was made to think before I made any move in honor of my ivory king. This game of skill whiled away my motherless hours until evening came to replenish the spot where my sweet kiss of the morning had long ago dried.

Saturday, July 16, 2005

I just can't understand how I've ended up like this. Trying hard and ending up no where. Working hard and it never being enough. He will always complain that I dont see him much...she will always miss me coz I don't make an effort to see her I haven't worked hard enough to have money for college over the four years in high school so I work real damned hard now but fall short on the family front. I barely have enough time to see my family let alone friends. I don't do work around the house I'm apparently always being mean to my aunt and my mother, don't act quickly enough to get anything done. Oh yeah, and there's this minor litlte thing of being a complete fuck up in my mom's eyes. Her exact words: "I can't believe I've failed so miserably with you"(only in bangla). great. Good to know you worked so hard to bring me into the world, good to know I've worked so hard to make up for your losses in life and am now just a failure. I'm not the daughter you wanted. But that has nothing to do with the huge mistakes you made in your life, now does it. The not being there for me when I was a kid and having substitute mom and dads--however great and loving and cool they were--has nothing to do with the fact that I'm not the kid you dreamed of. Well no one gets what they dream of. Ever. It's a rare occurrence....so why should I have all these expectations now, they'll be crushed anyway. I'll probably never pass my MCATS or make it ot London or marry the guy I want or be happy....drive cool cars. Fuck I even can't have the simple things like a normal mom. Just coz she can't adjust I'm a failure. It just hurts and I'm bitter. Fuck the world. And you can say I work hard to please myself but that's just not enough for me. My life doesn't just revolve around me, there are other people to consider. If I can't make the very woman that gave up everything for me to have a better life happy then what good am I?

Friday, June 17, 2005

guess who is awesome? Me me mememe. I did everything I set out to do this month and I'm so proud of myself. I got a great job, I'm making a descent amount of money, I've started becoming obsessed about reading again, guitar playing's back, I finished one short story, and yeah. tomorrow I'm/we're celebrating Shilpi Apu's birthday party. I think I'm baking a cake again. heheheh. wonderfulness. um...i'm playing for her guests two songs. A friend of ours, Shilpi's best friend since high school is coming to visit . I haven't seeen her since their wedding! I'm so excited.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

I took down the picture of my mom and I on the veranda in Bangladesh, her happy face clutching me close to her chest disappeared into my bag. I took down the pictures that tracked the progression of Leo from strange freshman to confident senior. My schedule came down with these snipets of my life and the beloved blury image of my father and I in DC. I had to. I needed to leave. And in my place some little snot-faced freshman will occupy this hideous bright yellow locker next fall. This was mine for four years. My place to dump heavy books, binders filled with frustrating material I'd never be able to master and dance shoes, pants, and smelly shirts. This locker laid blank, nearly uninhabited by Freshman Shahrin who had trouble remembering her combination, getting along with people that'd known eachother since pre-school and dealing with the greatest loss of her life. On the spines of the binders read: Algebra, Wld Hist, IIS, Eng. 9H and Fr. All joke classes posing no challenges (especially in science, what a waste). Hell, on Friday's my last class ended at 12:40 and I was free to go to "dance". One remarkable thing came out of that year though and that's the only reason that makes that year even worth mentioning. The next year brought great things, a fun year with few challenges or tragedies. No jarring events to upset my delicate sensibilities. One huge bio binder, a photo binder, another huge modern hist. binder, slim geometry, english and french. Nothing I couldn't handle. No new friendships. A repeat of a successful dance show, a lasting relationship. Inspiration struck this year, left lasting impressions. Brilliant. Things were perfect. Student suicide came in Junior year where Shahrin had a brilliant idea to take two hard science courses ending all hope of having time to relax. On mondays there was no lunch period and I was forced to eat during history. Oh yeah, those pesky things called the SAT's. Colleges are looking at you, they said. Sure they were, it's not like the application evaluation process isn't like a lottery at all. No. Of course not. That year, however, there were no AP binders. Shame on me. Those come in senior year, the year that it doesn't really matter....what's the point in writing this? Oh yes...to feel a single tear trickle down one cheek and see that I've had such wonderful experiences, how much I've grown; I'm leaving the ''best years of my life''. In reality I'm taking with me my best friends, my art, my writing, and dance videos. I'm leaving nothing behind that I'll miss. Certainly not those terrible 78 minute classes. Crying seems pointless. Perhaps that's why the tears don't come. It's just not there and I needn't try. High school was not horrible yet wasn't mind blowing. It just was. Perhaps at graduation I shall feel a pang of sentiment as I think of who will inhabit my faithful, trusty locker.

Thursday, April 07, 2005

Artist: Annie Lennox Song: Into The West (The Lord Of The Rings) Lay down your sweet and weary head, Night is falling, you have come to journeyâ??s end. Sleep now, and dream of the ones who came before, They are calling from across a distant shore. Why do you weep? What are these tears upon your face? Soon you will see, all of your fears will pass away. safe in my arms, you're only sleeping. Chorus: What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass, A light on the water, all souls pass. Hope fades into the world of night, Through shadows falling out of memory and time. Don't say, We have come now to the end. White shores are calling, you and I will meet again And you'll be here in my arms, just sleeping. Chorus: What can you see on the horizon? Why do the white gulls call? Across the sea a pale moon rises, The ships have come to carry you home. And all will turn to silver glass A light on the water, Grey Ships pass into the west.

Friday, January 21, 2005

It's odd that one would much rather love than be alone yet when one loves they risk the chance of getting hurt really badly. But it's better to love than not. Yet how do you love someone like you used to who has changed so much. Who doesn't even see the sweetness in you anymore, who just thinks of you as an angsty teen who has no real reason to pout. Who never hugs you or releases an ounce of warmth even on the good days. An attempt to reminisce gets shot down with a contrasting image of how I used to be and how I am now- anything but ideal. Then is it better to close your heart off, put on a filter to those words and take only the good? But you have to live with the bad and you often forget about them. What made it all this way, this cold empty harshness that I can hear; feel. In the end she is the one, the victim of a tragedy and I am the pain in the ass. It's because I've become bitter, nothing like I used to be even though I beg to differ. The truth hurts to see that in oneself so perhaps they should take a look....and we're back to the guilt about missing him for selfish reasons, to make my problems go away and help me deal with the new ones. We depend so much on people it's sad.