well-intendedliar

[well-intendedliar]

~Vahan Tekeyan, poet and survivor of the Armenian Genocide

[well-intendedliar]

I don't know how to talk to my parents anymore. And it's killing me more than I thought it would. The two people, who I have confided in for 30 years, since the moment my mouth started making noise and never stopped, I just don't know what to say to them.

I don't know how to talk to them because I know now that they don't care. And I'm not sure how to talk to people I love with the knowledge that they do not care. What is the point of confiding when there is no care to the person who is listening?

It came about in a conversation. I was telling about this guy I was getting to know who told me he was apolitical. And frankly, I think it went beyond politics. It was a genuine lack of interest in getting to know people —something I've never considered was even a possibility. I pass this on to my parents, assuming their reaction would be somewhat similar to my own—the humor in the irony of not caring about the world around you. Hell, these were my parents. They knew at least, I wouldn't tolerate the absence of curiosity or compassion.

What I had hoped would be an easy conversation quickly became a reminder of moments in childhood, when it was time to be disciplined for bad bad behavior.

"You're being unreasonable."

"Who cares if he doesn't care about things?"

"At least he cares about his parents."

And then the final blow:

" Unless it personally affects me, I'm not going to care."

And something about that sentence felt like a confession of a crime, so I had to defend them. They were my parents after all.

I pushed back.

" You guys absolutely care. When I share about what concerns me in the world and in politics, you care."

They had to.

We were immigrants. Still are. We have faced harassing phone calls, bottles thrown at us from passing cars, and punctured car tires.

We grow up together in a sense. Unknown and uncharted were our lives here, but we grew up.

My dad was the first to break the truth of thanksgiving to me at age 7. He talked to me about the genocide and violence of the indigenous people. The enslavement of african americans, long before I learned about it in school.

And when he spoke of injustice, I knew he had felt that anger. He grew up poor. He grew up around suffering.

My mother faced her life here alone. A child in school and a partner at work, she learned the hard way in building community and holding relationships with people.

Bedtime stories were filled with narratives of many. Why Shylock was right in his anger. Why Karna was loyal to Duriyodhana. Why for every sharp thorn, there was once something unbearably soft.

For the two people I love the most to say that they do not care, it had hurt me so much. It still hurts me now.

Then what was I sharing all these years? About friends, co-workers, passions and fears — who was I sharing with?

The words of all I want to share are just stuck in a part of my throat. I could share with the rest of the world but somehow I would still be choking. I don't know what to say anymore.

And I realize beyond the basics of what I ate , I can't share. Anything else would imply I care about other people and that doesn't personally affect them.

I don't know if this is pettiness but even today, I even said to my mother " you said you don't want to know anything that doesn't personally affect you so I can't really share anything"

To that, she had nothing to say but goodnight and goodbye.

[well-intendedliar]

I have learned you, the unfortunate soul

Who sought so desperately, a God with no altar —

Without a sacrament to a rite not yet formed.

There are no priests, no saints — there are your hands only,

emptied for the sole purpose of a purpose.

You made me, unfortunate soul.

With eyes that could only see you, my most devoted.

My only devoted.

While zealots build marvels and scream their pledge to the mass of reformed heretics,

you whisper your prayers, begging for your boons.

[well-intendedliar]

There are folds in between the words you say

And the ones you mean.

Only when you're with me.

Only when the veil is wrapped tight and your face is drawn on top with jagged precision.

I have learned you.

I have learned how the phosphorus strikes, from red to white.

I have learned to sit by the banks of the river in high tide.

You burn me up, I drown you out.

[well-intendedliar]

There was a time called Before—

A time when I would not feel the love of missing you.

There was a time called Before—

A time when I was a child lost in the counting

of minutes left until I could leave.

There was a time called Before—

A time when I did not look to time,

In order to remember you then.

I don't remember you from Before,

But I collect your memories as undisputed fact.

There is a time called Now—

A ledger of nonsense and petty remarks

The Near-past and the Current-future never stood

so close to each other.

[well-intendedliar]

I have no heart left for devotion,

It is backfilled with love that was never mine.

It is locked away, indebted—

to the smile of my mother,

to the hopes of my father,

to the spirit of my friends,

to the bend of the Earth,

to the will of strangers.

What reason do I have to look past the sky?

[well-intendedliar]

A Doubter's Exception

For the sake of my mother's closed eyes,

Her clasped palms and sleepless nights

For the sake of my father's sorrows,

darkened dreams and heartbreaks

I hope, for their sake.

I hope for the sake

of their painful devotion that bleeds them dry.

I hope their God exists.

[well-intendedliar]

Pádraig O' Tuama, Kitchen Hymns

[well-intendedliar]

crooked goes the road,

where the dried tar peels,

and gnarled roots curl out,

Like limbs intended to be tripped over.

crooked goes the road,

where the Wandering decay,

while the Ambitious drip red.

The dirt keeps record and sweeps away the rest.

crooked goes the road,

a Sisyphean fate.

I beg of it,

”Tell me where this path ends, or where I will.”

crooked goes the road to nowhere and everywhere,

where the dried tar peels and cracks,

where gnarled roots of an old tree shift and curl out

like limbs intended to be tripped over.

crooked is the road half-swallowed by the earth,

where not all paths are clear, unlit by the sun

and remain unnoticed to the naked eye.

crooked lies the road ahead with no end in sight,

where there is no promise, no award,

and most of all, no evidence

of whether footsteps ever echoed on this path.

crooked is how I must follow,

without a promise,

without a vision. But most importantly,

with scarred knees.

[well-intendedliar]

I grieve at every goodbye with a thornish smile

And a heavy cognizance,

That I will not witness life with you until the next time.

And when next time becomes the last time,

I must be ready with grief.

And I will confess—

I've missed you when you were near.

I've missed you when I was with you.

I've missed you because time will not spare us.

I've missed you because that is all I can do.

[well-intendedliar]

I know of dreams like I know planets

Venus aches , Mars weeps

Jupiter writes myth from blood

While the rest just watch

[well-intendedliar]

Going east into midnight

and the cities are in the rearview mirror.

The sky is the forest,

a quiet void spreads and eats what's ahead.

But the will-o'-wisps flicker,

orange,

yellow,

white.

Light eating the dark,

A fold, a crease

The trees are shorter now.

I drive this chariot ,

my Sun trails behind.

[well-intendedliar]

“Do they take American Express at the end of the world?”

I start the day at 7 in the morning, the daylight brings in the news of “what happened” after my own dread of “what could happen” exhausts me into a rest like state the night before. 

Maybe the “what could happen” does happen; maybe it's better or worse than what could. But by the time I wake up, it's already happened and. One way or another, I become my own Nostradamus, a predictor of things that anyone with the slightest knowledge of history and pattern-recognition could predict. All seeing but knows nothing. 

I check amex instead because I know the cycle ended mid month and the bill is due soon. Enter username, password, otp, remember device for future sign ins. And what a surprise, I qualify for more credit because I've been a good little consumer who knows how to pay bills. 

I like to pretend that I have some sense of control, isn't that why I majored in business in the first place? Learn the basics of finance, investment, market segments and management. And all of that was helpful, sure. Even got a job straight out of school working in the securities industry. A good job to pay off my American Express card so I can eventually qualify for more credit. 

A good job for my good credit to buy good food and any kind of booze, just to do it all again for the next paycheck and the next billing cycle. 

And just like that, life becomes a balance of pay to get paid for every two weeks. And those two weeks turn to months turn to summers to fall to winters. And I get sick, my parents get sick, or the world gets sick. But I’m still charging that card back to back to back– until someone dies. 

For just a moment, I see death for what it is.

 It is unpayable, unchargeable.

No credit, no debit.

No reward points, no not yet. 

Maybe when the funeral home pulls out the card machine so I can swipe for that 1% cash back  on ten grand.

But I stare at a body and there is nothing I can do with a body that cannot swipe. 

No one can.

Maybe that’s when someone's truly free, when there is nothing left to swipe for. 

And I pause, because isn’t this something?  Because people die everyday in the most mundane ways and the most tragic ways– but the sorrow I feel, is it for them or for myself?

[well-intendedliar]

American Dream,

the cure, for all bleeding hearts,

the disease, blanched souls.

American dream,

It will numb you to the core.

Else, the Hunger will.

[well-intendedliar]

American dream,

It will numb you to the core.

Else, the Hunger will.

[well-intendedliar]

─ Hisham Siddiqi

[well-intendedliar]

I no longer remember the face of the person I wrote this about.

But I think of this lesson so often, when dealing with the currencies that often bargain in love.

The way hurt and anger rear their ugliness, bullying my heart.

A hefty exchange; to hold hurt, heavy and loaded. It is always ready for the first sign of ill will from the outside.

That's what the past two days have felt like.

I fold my tongue and bury my secrets. I cannot share more than what is permissable. I do not dare to cross those lines because I will lose.

But i hope for a different bargain, of loving more wisely. Wisdom is the prudent currency. It assesses with much compassion, something I lack so much. Perhaps there's compassion to be found for those who I hoped loved me deeply but they simply do not.

Do not, could not, would not.

So what?

i ask it for justice but that is not what a wise love can do.

All wisdom can do is guide; there's room for hurt and anger but they can only speak.

Perhaps that's why wisdom truly leads with strength; I must hold space for the ugly but let it take rest.

I share what feels right, I speak when the words are ready. I laugh and share in my joy with friends who I thought loved me as I loved them.

And maybe they do and maybe they don't; but that is not the rule I play by anymore. At least, I try not to.

Even so late at night, I think of how little I have shared with friends I've known for over 15 years in the past two days.

There must be a consensus that this season of friendship has changed and so have I. I cannot speak on any other party's behalf, as they may share what is right when the time is right.

And I must change with the tide. The love must simply be redirected with the hope that wherever it goes, it's return is inevitable.

The lessons, learned and in progress—

Give form. My hands take shape,

returning from their outstretched position.

My feet lift up, the steps in reverse and I move.

Further away I go, saying

"I'll love you safer from here."