I walked home from College and University. A 45 minute walk, most of it in the rain. It was a good walk, helpful. I’ve been feeling a lot lighter today, a lot healthier, stronger, freer. Catharsis, once again.

Toronto at night is fascinating. I walked past teenaged posses, including a four-man scooter gang. There was a pair of old men, hanging out together on the steps of a church: one of them had a radio voice reminiscent of Wolfman Jack (RIP), the other one had a maniacal and infectious laugh in response. I wanted to loiter and eavesdrop, but I was getting rained on. And I needed to not lose my train of thought.

The last few months have been heavy, intense, crippling. But they’re over now. These words/themes have been showing up in my writing at a notable frequency: fire, sun, blood, dis/order, weight, breakdown, tears, intensity. The realisation that emotions become absorbed into the physical had my shoulders feeling like Atlas’.

I’ve cried, hallucinated, clung, and dealt with longstanding guilt, sadness, fear, and false hope. And now I’m moving on. I feel the fire’s intensity lessening - I’m intimate with this feeling, my totem is the phoenix. I’m getting brand new and improved. I need the next little while to regenerate and complete my healing. I’m relishing the thought of brighter feathers and a greater wingspan. Feel my glee? Darkness vanquished, thank God. I was doubting my ability to hold on.

Related: earlier on, I hit up my bookshelf to retrieve Stephen King’s Night Shift (thanks to LM for reminding me). One of the stories in it, “The Mangler”, was the direct inspiration for the first ever horror story that I had written called “Killer Vacuum.” I pretty much ripped off the entire storyline, substituting a vacuum cleaner as the bloodthirsty protagonist. Typed up on my mum’s electronic Casio typewriter 17 years ago, I’m fond of that story and wish I could find it again. Also, on Saturday, received a weird flashback of a children’s book I co-authored almost 10 years ago called “Amos the Purple Mosquito” (no, we weren’t on drugs). This is all relevant because my unconscious has finally gotten through with something it’s been trying to tell me for a minute. Stay tuned, I’m on a prolific tip.

Related, part 2: I have a strange ability to manifest my personal desires. Early last week, I’d been feeling this intense need to express myself visually and Illustrator wasn’t cutting it. Wouldn’t you know, an artist’s kit (pastels, oil paints, watercolours, pencils) happened to show up unsolicited? (Thanks S & S!). I’ve been sketching over the weekend, colour selecting through divination. This feels right.

For S: dood, the bite marks on my palms have almost completely faded and I’m no longer dizzy, ya dig? For every one else: mad props if you catch that reference. Clue: Unlike the founder of the Sulpicians. Yes, I do the NYT crossword, but I’ve never been able to complete it.

***

“Ah, you’re the poet,” he said to me, on introduction. Took me by surprise. There’s a sense of urgency now.

I’m writing a series of first-person monologues titled “Unraveling (prelude to a breakdown)”, that looks at public performances of mental illness. Having had intimate encounters with those vertices, I needed to write around my experiences as both participant and witness. The following are fragments from my writings, completed over the past two weeks:

“Empty spaces, what are we living for?/Abandoned places, I guess we know the score” – The Show Must Go On, Queen (1991)

“I cried in the sunlight/Would I fake all the times I loved you?/Just to play in a game of twisted with you” – Twisted (Everyday Hurts), Skunk Anansie (1996)

I went to visit him in the psych ward. He couldn’t stop crying. Even when he was laughing, tears were coming. He cried for days. He only stopped at night, when they gave him sleeping pills. They wouldn’t give him the pills during the day, even though he asked. I visited him daily even though he revolted me, and I pretended I pitied him when really I feared ending up like him. Pathetic, shrunken, wearing the stigma of mental illness. Each time I left, I would walk down one flight and lock myself in a bathroom. Sometimes I would throw up with the effort of holding back my own tears. I couldn’t allow myself to cry because that was weak, it was sad, and it was the inevitable prelude to a breakdown. After all, he was admitted because he couldn’t stop crying. After my last visit, I started hyperventilating in the washroom. I was in there for almost an hour, until the panic attack had passed. I couldn’t go back after that, it felt like too close a call. And that’s why I don’t permit myself to cry.

***

My outlines have started to blur - the steadiness of my movement is gone. Handshake in tremolo. The body interprets emotion, manifests sadness through an inability to keep up. The background of my life has been thrown into a negative and what’s black shows up as white, what’s green shows up as red. It’s hard to hold on when the mental is in turmoil. It’s hard to hold on when the ground shifts. It’s hard to hold on when you’re not with me. You’re now a lifeline, this is now a reversal, and I am now unhealthy.

I don’t let myself cry, but recently, I haven’t been able to suppress/oppress tears. People close to me draw back and I don’t blame them. I’m intense on a good day. Those around me need to protect themselves from my lows. I see my friends withdraw and I can’t even be mad at them. I see how my hurt affects them and so I repress to spare them the pain. I feel like a character in a Bachman story, holding in my guts as they spill from a gash in my abdomen. I tell everyone around me that I’m okay, it’s just a skin wound. And feeling so alone when they all choose to believe that, choose to believe that I’m not unraveling despite what they see. I absolve them of responsibility with “I’m okay.” They don’t even have to witness.

***

In the absence of safe space provided by a lover, I turn to the city as a cold, mocking substitute. Queen-sized beds are replaced by park benches and street corners function as living rooms. The corner of Dundas and Dufferin, specifically - that intersection is a short walk away from a hospital, CAMH, and my home. I’ve tricked myself into thinking of the city as safe, and once I can believe that, then I can let go. Maybe it’ll happen in a restaurant, a coffeeshop, a club, a gym. No shame, no boundaries. I’m holding on with everything I’ve got. Until then, I seek refuge in my addictions, but those crutches can only take me so far.

***

Calvino says: “The city, however, does not tell its past, but contains it like the lines of a hand, written in the corners of streets, the gratings of the windows, the banisters of the steps, the antennae of the lightning rods, the poles of the flags, every segment marked in turn with scratches, indentations, scrolls.”

Like Zaira, I hold my past within my body that can barely sustain itself anymore. It’s a feedback loop – emotions express in the physical, and the body’s memory acts out in the mental, emotional, spiritual. My spatial clumsiness reflects an inability to handle feelings with finesse. The bruises, scratches that appear unexplained on my body are mirrored in my psyche. I still don’t know which came first, and it scares me that the memories I retain may not be only mine, but of those who came before me.

***

I’m walking south, toward the lake. Toward the water and Ochún. Mentally preparing a ritual to release. It’s not going to work because I don’t want it to work. Or something. This enacted martyrdom is tinted with self-loathing. Before I cross the tracks, before I reach the lake, I stop. I walk east with the CN Tower as my guide, the blinking lights creating cheer in anticipation of the Pride parade. I stop again, and sit on a bench, staring straight ahead of me. I only move when my body is cold and wants to go home. I hear your smile in my head.

***

Written in a notebook while riding the Spadina streetcar on June 25, 2009

Michael Jackson died today. So did Farah Fawcett. I don’t relate much to Ms. Fawcett, but the tragedy of dying so soon after finally saying yes to a proposal hammers home carpe diem. Michael Jackson on the other hand… After all, he was the only true international cultural experience generations have ever had. Childhood memories of Michael Jackson’s music – I entertained doting family members by dancing and lip-synching to videotaped recordings of his performances.

MJ hasn’t actively contributed culturally or been artistically significant in any new form in over a decade - then again, we did set up the highest bars possible for him. This was the most famous man on earth.

But I am from the MTV generation, and I am a black child who grew up in the eighties. The cultural, racial, musical, and other effects of a legacy have been era-defining, only tainted later on in my teens. I guess it’s the price we pay to receive genius. I’m a delusional naïf, but even I know nothing is pure anymore.

Dwele is 636 days older than me. This is his tribute to Michael Jackson:

i hold cities like lovers // we all do // how we treat our cities, lovers, speaks more about us than we would know // we hold cities like lovers, but they don’t care // in bed their backs are turned toward us // i fight // loud fights that keep the neighbours up // emotionally violent fights that leave me broken // at night, i run monologues // i couldn’t understand why // maybe it was impersonal // used worn tired // giant likenesses of old whores // take on a familiarity // like the folds of flesh // like birthmarks, moles // inconsistencies imperfections // on the skin of the beloved // little things that comfort // i’m not special // neither are you // city heart beats // pulse rhythm comfort // blinking lights zap // train tracks rumble // street sweep five a.m. // something regular // you hold me in contempt // you could break me // we allow atrophy and decay, in ourselves and lovers // we take what we need and don’t take care of our needs // then we wonder why loss plagues us // it’s not fair // i don’t need you // you need me // your need for me affects me // shapes me // defines me // i worry sometimes // worry that i’m paranoid // worry that i read too deep into things // worried that i stumble stupidly // i’d be better off turning my back too // we hold cities like lovers // when we feel threatened // we don’t know when to let go, when to move on, when to leave // when to leave ourselves behind.

One.

Years ago, I met a beautiful couple. She was petite, vivacious. On a rise in her chosen career, she struck a deal with her partner. She quit her job. He was tall, stunning, with ice blue eyes. I’ve never seen eyes like his. Like Scott Summers, but with a fluorescent blue gaze. Degenerative vision, leading to blindness. They decided to take turns - he would work until he couldn’t, she would return to work when he couldn’t. I thought it was sacrifice, but the kind of relationship they had, the kind of love they shared, didn’t ask for sacrifice. The kind of man he was, I would have done what it had taken. The kind of woman she was, she didn’t have to struggle with the choices she made. And the love that they have will change the world for the better. Easy.

Two.

Stored in my heart. Pulled out every once in a while, a romanticised notion used for reassurance. A substitution for the tangible. In the same space as a future motorbike - desired but currently unknown. Longing for possession, for experience, for the feeling in my hair. A desire that if not controlled, will turn into an obsession. Small controlled doses, small doses. I’m scared that I’ll end up like Dolarhyde, consuming the woman clothed in the sun, representing self. (Remember Icarus? Remember, Icarus?) I’d rather consume or be consumed metaphorically. Without a threat.

Three.

On the road, I listened to my mother sing along to a Motown collection, the only music we could agree to. Songs that meant something to both of us for different reasons. As I picked out breaks used on hip hop beats, mum told me stories about listening to these songs on a radio show coming out of Omdurman. The Marvelettes, Marvin Gaye, The Contours, Edwin Starr, The Temptations, The Jackson 5, and on and on.

Four.

I’m trying to understand noumenon, and by extension, Kant. Not too sure how far I’m getting with that. It’s getting clouded by Houllebecq’s examination of Lovecraft. I can’t seem to focus on complex explorations of worldviews that bleed into each other but probably shouldn’t. The Houllebecq is Iggy Pop’s fault. I’ve been distracting myself by re-reading the short stories I love: The Great God Pan, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, The Handsomest Drowned Man In The World, The Tell-Tale Heart, The Wonderful Story of Henry Sugar, On Meeting My 100 Percent Woman One Fine April Morning, etc. I can’t help but look at them now through these lenses.

Five.

I need to work with my body again. Some kind of intense form of manual labour. I’m feeling an itch to destroy something and rebuild it again, on a physical plane. I need some kind of pain in my body, pain created by moving away from paper and into a workspace to create. Calluses, cuts, stiffness. I need to work through the next stage, purify myself through exertion, pushing through the burn. A manifestation of the phoenix’s ritual. Fire’s cool.

her: i dreamed of you last night. again.

him: <smile>oh really?</smile>

her: well, it wasn’t you but it was you. it was weird.

him: if it wasn’t me, who was it then?

her: no, it was definitely you. but it wasn’t human, humanoid. like marble, but soft. and warm. it looked liquid.

him: hmm.

her: and it - you - were brown. a deep, dark brown.

him: i am brown.

her: not like that. like melted dark chocolate, or peat. and your aura was golden. shimmery around your outline.

him: did it even look like me?

her: it was you. i know it was. whatever, forget it. it was just a dream.

him: well what happened?

her: nothing really. *sigh*. it was more like emotions. i was anxious and scared. and then you were with me. and i slowly became calmer. until i was completely relaxed. and i was falling asleep, and i could see you. i think you were getting ready to leave. and i wanted to tell you not to go, but i fell asleep.

him: okay?

her: and then i woke up. and i was in a room, on a bed. there was nothing else in the room, except a window. and there was a breeze coming through the window, moving the curtains. they were white lace. and i knew you had just left, through that window, but there was nothing beyond it, just water. a sunny day, and water. and you were gone. and i was starting to feel disappointed and starting to panic. but i was holding on to the calm you gave me, because it was the only thing you had left behind. and then i woke up.

him: it wasn’t me, but it was me. you’ve had this dream before?

her: yes.

him: what does it mean?

BREAK

(a beat that does not use a sample from Allen Toussaint’s Summer Nights)

- the cover art uses quotes from W. Somerset Maugham’s Of Human Bondage and letterpress motifs. on cream stock. this is the only interlude, and occurs at the 00:17:23 mark. the mixtape ends with Fishbone’s We Just Lose Our Minds, the entire nine minutes+.

i process, mentally, at ridiculous speeds. i’m not too sure where i get it from, and when i was younger, i used to believe that i suppressed my feelings. in retrospect, when i examine what i’ve been through over the last three years in particular, i’ve noticed that it’s not suppression. i just go through emotions at the speed of light. saves me time. i’ve learned not to actively react while i’m going through this, and to allow myself a little more time so i can be sure that i’ve gone through everything and i can make decisions with resolution.

the downside of this rapid processing is that i can get paralysingly overwhelmed by the intensity of disparate extreme emotions and moods in a short time span. writing this out right now makes me think that i am this way as a protective measure, not allowing negative emotions to exist in my mind long enough for them to create a gateway into Darkness. living with depression means developing extraordinary defensive measures, because sometimes i just can’t be sure of my ability to pull through.

the upside of this is that: i don’t grieve for long. i don’t hold on to anger for long (any more). and i’m not a bitter or resentful person. last year, around this time, i was angry, and someone told me that i had to stop responding from anger. it was too draining, too destructive, and created unhappy endings. i needed to flip, operate from a place of love. i’d been holding on to those words in the context of revolution and social change. now, i’ve learned the value of responding from love in my day-to-day, and from a deeper level than just trying to achieve moral goodness. and i’ve been noticing people around me taking advantage of that.

i’m not coming from an altruistic love, i’m not talking about loving others for the sake of being perceived in a positive light. i’ve been making choices based on a love of my own self, and i’ve been a much happier and productive person because of it. in the last couple of months, i’ve had to extricate and disentangle myself from situations where i could see that the other person was mistaking my kindness for weakness, and my generosity for stupidity. and i had to leave in a way where i was taking care of myself emotionally first.

i’ve been surprised at the results. situations which could have ended up in acrimony and bitterness have been inverted into situations where closure and resolution have been easy to find without any lingering resentment. righteous anger at being used, manipulated, or attacked was mine to claim. and i didn’t. i just smiled and walked away, unscarred.

and most beautifully, most recently, acting from a place of love meant that i could hold on to the best parts of a significant relationship with someone else, and continue to love them and keep them in my life.

surviving the encounters that have signaled the conclusive and absolute final ends of certain relationships have taken up way too much of my energy. energy i’d rather be putting into a calligraphy project, audio documentary, lesson plans, book-writing, or building on relationships that i hope to carry with me for a long time still. so now, i’m closing the gates and withdrawing into a different, productive headspace where i don’t have to deal with peripheral anxieties and stresses. but first, i have to remove the leftovers. and this time, i’m not smudging or scrubbing with bleach to remove the traces of toxicity. i’m strapping on my blasting gear, looking forward to the fun i’m going to have with this purge.

and i’m still grinning.

This week, I’m the featured artist on This Is World Town with my project “Posted Cards Online“.

This is World Town is “[a] new online magazine voicing the experience of immigrant, ethnic and racialized youth.  The project, “This is World Town“, is a play on the notion of a collective, assimilated experience that is supposedly characteristic of multiculturalism.  The title, and by extension, the content takes aim at this notion with use of cheeky subject matter and first-hand accounts from “the products of multiculturalism”.”

FYI - This Is World Town is currently seeking submissions from writers, artists, graphic designers, videographers and musicians. Email me (nelhadi[at]gmail), and I’ll send you the call.