A Litany of Breaths

[Leila]

Po, tek une.

[Leila]

I had doubted myself that night. The notion of dreams being nothing more than one’s monologue was tested by the spontaneous sensation of touch. The impact of his grip imprinted on my shoulders and collar bone ached for the rest of the day. I kept the lamps on every night for a week after that, although the ghost in The Gift appeared in a well-lit bathroom and The Langoliers was filmed during the daytime.

The next morning after returning to the island, Zytka showed me my torn bed sheets. “All we… us… thought you left… for always.” I kept waiting for her to tell me more, that there had been someone else sleeping in our bed while I was gone. “Agneta” meaning Mrs. O, “hears noise in night when you were there. He yells in night. I come in mornings, everything is everywhere.” Naming all the parts of the bed, pillows and bed sheets by the appropriate name in the islander’s language, Zytka explained that they were all scattered around the room and on the floor every morning while I was away. I never asked Him why but I found out months later that He, too, had fears of His own.

O Mythos

The sun bride had finally awoken from the chaos surrounding them. By then, the mob had multiplied themselves. It didn’t matter how many He killed; the sons would come to the dying father’s aid. While waiting for their turn to die, the crowds in the outer layers of the throng f’ucked one another hysterically; mothers, sisters, daughters, neighbors – whatever would produce descendants to keep the eternal sinister cycle of debauchery stirring. Gaping cunts dripping of despondency awaited conception so they could cultivate monstrous savages in their Stygian tarry caves. Throughout the mayhem all around the world, her voice roamed over their heads screaming and calling His name. At times she would writhe herself from their grip, break free from the crowd, leap into His arms and hold Him until they would pry and drag her away. Whenever she pressed herself to Him she brought a whole world with her, sewed onto her like wings on her shoulders, and His eyes wandered behind her back to see it for the first time. Beauty was the backdrop of hate and suffering. They were surrounded by a scenery of a viridescent landscape, the clearest gurgling waters, and animals staring at the crowd with a questioning air about the inhumanity of a culture of brutes. He was stunned to see glimpses of splendor in the midst of horrors, as if someone had put these two together to play on the irony.

[Leila]

Some nights they would lock her in a dingy iron cage, her new cocoon, where He could see her covered in blood struggling to tear off the bars. Other nights they would imprison her behind the walls of a soaring tower where she couldn’t be seen. She spat, kicked, scratched and found ways to appear before Him for a split second, begging Him for help, before they dragged her back. Before long, He realized that for the rest of their lives He could only fight for the next moment when she would jump into His arms. The power of the mob did not depend on their strength; their main purpose for living was to serve as barriers for anyone who wanted something different than to serve as barriers. Neither could their power be attributed to their shrewdness since they had none; they were ignorant when it came to war tactics or reasoning. Their true strength came from numbers. That’s all it takes for the world to topple over. And He would age one day, His arms would give out and He would die somehow, leaving behind stolen moments that were meant to belong to Him in the first place. With a hateful roar that stifled her cries, He cursed beauty, the taunting image that ravished the astonished reflection of his lifeless eyes.

[Leila]

“I am not Simone Choule!”

I tried to throw away the torn bed sheets that increasingly resembled home-made gauze for our nightly renewed wounds but Mrs. O tried to stop me. She wanted to perform some kind of ritual on them to shun the evil eye, and when she finally gave up arguing with me on superstition she muttered under her breath as she turned to leave, “You American girls… think so untouchable. But you are not, nobody is! Other girl was as you but she got evil eye then.” I hurried back to the apartment. It was going to get dark soon.

The curtains’ choreography propelled by the cool midnight air kept me transfixed on my side of the bed for so long that by the time I came out of the daze, the bed felt like a pile of hot coals. I turned to my left and pulled my body closer to the colder part of the bed, the middle. He carefully placed His cheek on top of mine as my face sunk into the pillow, and then it was dark. I opened my eyes and found His right eye staring into mine. I wondered if it was a good time to tell Him about Aeon Flux comics, how genius was the concept of the fly trapped inside the eyelashes, that they were going to make it into a movie soon. He beat me to it and asked about happiness. He thinks about my happiness like all happinesses are achieved: through some sort of a mathematical equation. I, on the other hand, don't really think of His happiness. I just assume everyone is the happiest they'll ever be; that their lives are derivatives of their desires, and are not by accident but because they've worked each day to slowly morph it by degrees exactly how they want it… save for some unfortunate events of pure probability which really are the best thing that can happen to someone considering its non-discriminatory nature. But having a distinct passion for invading the pillars of others' temperaments, He was not satisfied and pressed on provocatively, “Will you be happy when…” He subtracted pomegranate layers, added fiction squared by watermelon seeds, multiplied goose bumps with L over Y, divided wrinkles by apple leaves, found square roots in the fluttering of eyelashes, formed a parabola with pollen of mimosas, and then finally asked again because now that He’d solved the equation I owed it to Him to tell Him whether the answer was correct.

[Leila]

I must have stood there at the edge of the rocks with my goggles on for about 5 minutes, visually measuring the cliff that Mrs. O had confirmed as most definitely safe to jump from. After having rationalized that the first jump is the most frightening and remembering how addictive the rush is after the first time, the only argument that finally made me do it was the thought that no amount of reasons to be afraid would change the outcome because sooner or later I was going to jump anyway. It was only a matter of time. At last I plunged in headfirst regretting it the moment I built enough inertia to run off the cliff, but tried my hardest to keep my spine stick straight. I once smacked my ribcage on the hard surface viciously when I regretted jumping into the water and curved my back backwards. As I was plummeting in my face was smashed a million times onto some imaginary rocks hiding half a meter beneath the surface. Would I know if that happened or would death come before I knew it? Instead, it was a fairly smooth jump and as the unbelievably cold water swallowed me up inside its monstrous belly, I stretched my arms out in disbelief. No rocks. I hadn’t even hit that humongous fish I always thought I would. I finally opened my eyes. No icebergs either, no whale tail, the bottom of a ship passing by or anything else that’s terrifying about the sea. Swimming pools didn’t have the slightly grotesque, one-with-nature sentiments of awe that I could do without, an authenticity that I never figured out whether that made them better or worse. They were sterile, colorless and ultimately had become nothing more than a big bathtub. The color of the water reminded me of a painting of the naiads meeting the beautiful Hylas and drowning him. Resurfacing slowly, I removed my goggles and tied them to my bikini taking my time with the backstrokes. Any good swimmer knows that the worst thing they can do once they dive in is to start swimming furiously. The adrenaline rush warmed me up quickly enough as I made towards the pile of rocks of Last Breath.

[Leila]

Halfway there I was out of breath and slowed down my strides before finally resorting to floating on my back, eyes closed and feverish from the hot sun and fatigue. Now I really couldn’t turn back. There had been a miscalculation in the distance and by the time it became obvious to me, it was too late. Being out of shape, I was exhausted and gasping for air with every movement. A man who tried to swim to another country became so tired halfway through, that he swam back to his country. And so it should be that a sense of humor, not hope, perishes last. I looked up to see the little black mound over the surface of the water. It looked like a gargantuan volcano tip. The water surrounding it was darker, a reminder that there is earth beneath it all, that swimming is the closest one can get to feeling like flying on their own, sans help from technology. I made my way back to the shore where the world with all its hot sand rose from the ground and burnt my forearm that I had put up on time to protect my eyes. Time, a fleeting cloud, a rather apathetic and self-centered cloud, passed on its own accord, wholly unmoved by my misfortune of being buried alive gradually. The sand was opening up and I was slowly sinking below the sand-raining cloud. It was a cruel cloud, then.

Just as the little tourist girl was about to pour more sand over my knees, I woke up and she stopped only to blurt out, “You’re like--” deep breath “Chineeese girl,” dragging words out like children do. I drew a circle on the sand and stuck her plastic toy shovel in the center. According to the sun clock, it was noon and I would miss lunch if I didn’t hurry.

[Leila]

Ironia eshte se emri i vajzes eshte/ishte Simone. Life works that way.

(Drago qe pi lote vajzash! ... edhe te asaj qe -- fatkeqesisht per te -- loves you to death... maybe hers.)

[Leila]

Devijim:

Nje cift ishin shume te trishtuar sepse kishin vite qe u mungonte nje femije. Nje nate vjen nje dervish qe kalon naten ne shtepine e tyre dhe i pyet pse jane kaq te trishte. Ata i shpjegojne hallin dhe dervishi qesh duke u lene nje molle dhe nje porosi: molla te qerohet dhe ta ndajne te 2 midis nj-tj dhe lekuren t'ia ushqenin peles. 9 muaj me vone behen me nje vajze, pela me nje mez. Dhe keshtu e mbyll vajzen e cmuar ne nje dhome qelqi, nena shterpe ne bark e shkretetire ne gji. Nje mengjes dimri vajza u zgjua dhe pa pertej xhamit boren qe kishte mbuluar vendin, dhe mbi bore 2 pika gjaku harabeli. "Ka gje me te bukur se gjaku mbi bore?" uleret vajza e mrekulluar. "Po, ka," i pergjigjen sherbyeset, "eshte dragoi ne maje te malit." Pa degjuar prinderit, vajza mori kalin, nje pale kepuce hekuri dhe u nis ne maje te malit. Dragoi i mori ere: ere bananesh, trendafilash dhe CK1. E ndjeu vajzen para se ti trokiste ne dere, e mori brenda me te mira dhe pastaj e urdheroi te qante mbi nje kazan qe kur te ktheheshe nga gjahu te mund te shuante etjen. Perndryshe do e hante (dhe per ta frikesuar -- por jo shume, i tregoi vetem 1/3 e grave te vdekura dhe te varura ne mur). Vajza mbushi kazanin me uje dhe kripe, dhe pavaresisht se dragoi mbet' i kenaqur, ai nuk e mbajti anen e vet te premtimit :) Detyra e dyte qe i vuri ishte te hante mish njeriu. Vajza ia dha kalit ta hante. Vjen dragoi ne shtepi dhe bertet, "Mish, mish ku jeeeeee?" dhe mishi ia kthen, "Jam ketuuuu ne barkun e ngrohte." Se fundi, dragoi dorezohet dhe i kerkon ta martoje vajzen, e cila i pergjigjet se do e martoje pasi te kete qepur 66 fustane nuserie me fije mendafshi. Naten e marteses, nusja hyn ne dhomen e dhenderrit i cili e urdheron te heqi fustanin e te futet ne shtrat, por kjo ia kthen se per secilin petk qe ajo do heqi nga trupi i saj, ai duhet te zhveshi nje lekure. "Interesante! Askush s'ma ka kerkuar kete me pare," thote dragoi dhe shkul lekuren e tij te pare nderkohe qe nusja ka hequr njerin fustan. Dhe keshtu vazhdojne deri ne mengjes, nje shtrese pas tjetres, dragoi flak tutje lekuren e tij te fundit dhe perpara nuses lakuriqe shfaqet dhenderri i pashem, pakez i frikesuar nga surpriza e kendshme. Me kete rast, 66 grate e varura ne mur u ringjallen dhe u liruan, te veshura me fustanet e nuserise. Atehere vajza qe akoma sodiste dhenderrin psheretin, "A ka gje me te bukur se kjo?" Dhe ai i sjell 2 kokrra shege nga bahcja e tij te cilat...

[Leila]

(Drago qe pi lote vajzash! ... edhe te asaj qe -- fatkeqesisht per te -- loves you to death... maybe hers.)

MERIMANGË ME HELM TË ËMBËL...vdeksha që merr gjithë atë vrull dhe qëllon si pambuk. mwahhh :)

[Leila]

“Would you like to order anything or would you rather keep munching on her?” Those were the waitress’ first words to us as I later came to understand. “Men like women with meat,” she later commented in English on my unfinished plate egging Him on to agree. When she wasn’t paying attention, I hissed in His ear, “You chubby chaser!” He explained to her that I was raised differently – not like them – and never lacked my favorite foods. Their parents would eat their leftovers just so they wouldn’t throw food away. In fact she still ate whatever her sons left on their plates, no matter how full she was. A dialogue ensued full of numerous “this generation doesn’t understand” and different methods of cooking with cheap and limited ingredients. They laughed at the ridiculousness of it all and its painful truths. I finished my plate out of my imposed languor.

There is bitterness in the older generation. They look on to the newer generation with a sense of superiority and bitterness for having been pushed back from the scene and having become the audience instead of the actors they once were. Their bitterness comes out of comments such as, "In my day..." followed by an overly exaggerated good memory, comparisons with the newer and awful generation. In comparison to themselves back in the day the newer generation doesn't know anything, according to them. They become overly sentimental, sickly sentimental, holding themselves to a high esteem and moral, claiming that they respect their eldest and cherish their mother and father. Disturbingly enough, these are not sentiments one has but a description of a role – the one of “the better man.” It is one way of claiming potency. With age we become bitter and falsify our noetic growth as we slip into it like a robe for decency’s sake. God forbid one experiences loneliness, this disease from which ego feeds on.