Once Upon A Time, I Wanted To Be Just A Writer..

It has always been my first passion, writing. My father was the natural born writer of the family who could and did effortlessly write poems or letters EVERY single day of his life. I am not that disciplined to do that unless I took away all of daily life's responsibilities.

Every year I have this funny conversation with GOD. It's like my yearly "Evaluation." I go on explaining all of the important writer's conferences I should be attending, the MFA programs I should have applied to by now or the various writers I admire who are like secret close friends who have hurried ahead of the class line in front of me in terms of achievements years ago.

GOD sort of looks down at me nodding, smiling slightly, at my obvious excitement of imagining this life style. Then it's the same response, year and year, this desperate plea I make and GOD always predictably smiling back at me to tell me the same answer:

”You're not the only one good at marketing yourself, Farrah...."

​And then I give the exasperated look back of knowing THIS was the answer I would be given, and yet somehow I know that I'll be given that opportunity to share my passion.

It's what I've come to accept about Life: that if you trust enough in the process, everything is happening EXACTLY as it's suppose to regarding what is best for your life.

My life looks nothing like I had imagined for myself when i was young, day dreaming about a romanticized version of a "writer's life." It's actually, better. I remember sneaking into Raj Kamal Jha's office in New Delhi, India, the Editor of the India Times newspaper and successful fiction writer, under the guise of a journalist wanting to interview him, only to reveal upon meeting him in person that I simply must know, HAD to know what the secret was to doing it all: running a newspaper AND having the time to write fiction?

His response?

Until you have an interesting array of stories, how would you have anything interesting to write about? He encouraged me to not become one of those writers who lived inside a room "imagining stories" to write about but rather go live your life and collect the stories as you go along.

And so in this advice, I understood that GOD was not only great at marketing but was secretly my best Editor as well.

I've been so fortunate to enjoy two passions in my life, writing and tantra, as they fed me, inspired me and gave me infinite stories to think about each and every day. I will share some pieces I've written about here below. Some are from published poetry, or short stories as well as my daily journal entries. It will be giving you the Heart of who I am. And one day, I promise, a novel forthcoming.

Please enjoy my favorite Youtube Channel of Spoken poetry and stories of classic literature. This woman's reading voice is amazing!
http://www.youtube.com/user/PearlsofWisdom?feature=watch

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Your Mommy Has Lyme Disease : Written May 1, 2016

Feeling the ICK out of sick, I wake drenched in my own sweat and snot. This is actually a welcomed good sign. The sky's dim blue light shining through the window signals to me that it is early morning, another sign to alert me as to the time of day and whether I am awake at a normal hour. My son is still asleep. I thank God mercifully. I have perfected the ritual of pee, blink, and drink, my three step ritual to relieve my bowels, eyes and body of whatever toxins or nourishment is required at nearly any hour of the day. My head's throbbing has gone away. I do a running check list over my body to see who or what is still there: tingling gone, check. Runny nose gone, check. Body aches gone, check. The mere fact I can even think about this without brain fog is, in itself, a good sign. I want to reward the victory with a beloved cup of coffee. Only I know that if I do, I open the gate to the Lyme bugs for a re-match. I picture my beloved liver sighing, sitting all squished up inside of me, crying and aching from all the fighting she has done all this time. I try to hold her, inside my heart, and decide instead to treat us both to some Cistus tea with lemon. I promise my liver I'll reward her with a Beet smoothie later morning. And yes, I talk to my body's organs very much like this throughout the day, imagining what they, too, are going through, as a part of ME, in fighting THEM. We have won this battle, but not the WAR yet. I look at my kitchen counter top, a haven of herbs, vitamins, ground up powders, IndiAn elixirs, two blenders and a huge wire two tiered basket containing fruits and various tea bags. It is a part time job to simply remember the exact daily protocol each day. I will most likely succeed at getting outside today , to the beloved sunshine, but it will not be a day off. No, instead I must play catch up, to the loss of three days in sleep and rest after this last herx, and work all day. My poor son being left with someone else , instead of enjoying a healthier day with his mommy, will lose her to her need to work to continue to provide for them both. I see it in his eyes, his sadness when I start his morning bath:

" Mommy, where am I going today?"

I always try to make it sound like an adventure. He has enjoyed visiting zoos, a space museum, the library, science centers, local farms, bookstores, parks, fishing trips, but all without his mother. Always with someone else.

I have missed out on all of those fun moments or firsts a mother is suppose to do or enjoy with her child because of my need to work, and provide, on those days she was well enough to do so.

And when he DID get his mother, it was usually spent doing the necessities together such as hitting a grocery store, or errands, or maybe getting him new clothes or sneakers....a new book. Those days being a race against the clock to get back home before I'd fall too tired, or miss a vitamin protocol, or simply get sick and weak from having done too much in the course of a day.

I hope he will remember one day the time when his mother got so sick and tired of it all, she rented them a UHaul van to travel cross country together and feel free from routine, even if it were just in a van and the country's miles in front of them. She would pay the price for it though afterwards, nearly 6 weeks later without a routine or dietary needs followed, with a havoc immune system, and inability to sleep, because the tingling and the pain were constant.

But she got to show her little boy Mickey Mouse at Disney, and alligators, and amusement parks and Mississippi and Harley Davidson stores and diners and Texas and their country. Sometimes you need to take a vacation from your illness. It was worth the delay in my treatment.

If you tell people you have cancer, they all bow their eyes in unison and understand the complexity of how your entire world changes in every way from the disease. You get compassion and understanding and people want to help. But if you tell them you have Lyme Disease, which mimics its severity and complications, they do not understand the severity or even know what it may be. They think it's something you caught maybe at a BBQ party, or maybe you just need to wear more sunscreen. Isn't that something you just take some antibiotics for and get better with?

I don't have the heart to reveal to them how I fear even playing in the grass anymore. That I refuse to allow my son to play near the woods. That we will never go hiking in the USA, and he will not be raised here in the United States once I get better. It's not that I want to rip my son away from his birth country: it's that his birth country won't face or reimburse or care for him if he lands this same disease and in fact, will go to great lengths to deny his needs to get better. As a mother, I cannot put him in danger. For what good is the best foods, malls, jobs, education worth if you don't even have your own health or healthcare coverage?

Such deep thoughts here while the sun is still rising. But that's what I am thinking about when I have a clear moment in my head to think about something, when I feel like I must DO something. He will wake up here soon, knowing its a good sign that his mother woke up before him today....he has come to read the signs of my illness. He knows if today will be spent indoors or maybe out for some time.

He likes to play the game Doctor with mommy. And I love to play this game too. I taught him how to check his mommy' skin for any possible tick bites, and how to check for pain, or unusual floaters in my eyes. I then show him how to give mommy her gummy pills, or one if her homemade herbal fruit Popsicles, and we may even do yoga or energy exercises together. I go into storytelling mode with my eyes widening and my excitement showing to him then:

" Dr. Ashline, we must fight these horrible critters with all our might! They want to take over the world and ruin the human Superheroes! You must fight these bad bugs and find a way to stop them from hurting the humans everywhere!!!"

And I see how my son's eyes grow serious and determined to win this battle as a superhero, if only to buy himself another lovely, pain free, disease free day with his mommy.

The Day Goddess Kali Stopped By

Sorry friends for being distant. But I go inward and in silence often as a means to clear away distractions for clarity and cleansing. With so much noise in the world, I find it nearly the only path to getting my footing in this very chaotic, and troubled world we live in.

Yesterday I read a post about how someone ignores any posts except about Love. And although I see the altruism and meaning behind such thinking, I do not believe we were sent here in LIFE to just sit around thinking happy thoughts. To only " think" the SECRET and our whole life will fall in alignment with the Universe, somehow. No. I remember how Goddess Kali, the destroyer, the mother, appeared to me a year ago, and many times thereafter. Her flailing blue arms, her clownish red lips, her bugged out eyes and a skull in every direction. And she was MAD, crazy almost to the point of seeming crazy. I was afraid of her, I didn't know what she wanted from ME. And as I sat quietly in pain and suffering, she would jump out at me while huddled on the floor , practically making a gruesome scene about me. I was always too tired to try and understand whatever the hell she was doing. And then one day, when I almost thought I couldn't live on another day, she did something: she slapped me! And I got mad!

" Ouch! That hurt Motherfucker!!!!!"

She smiled a naughty smile, then leaned in to whisper in my ear:

"Good, you still have it in you! Now go back out there and see what I see: a lot of reasons and causes to get angry about, and destroy the thorns that pop up along the path of LIFE that block your way to paradise...."

And it made sense then. So much of " what little girls are made of " is sugar and sweet. We're taught, as children, to make life a fairy tale, a sweet ending, a quest to HAPPY and maybe then, only then, will we achieve nirvana. And certainly there will be foot soldiers sent to meditate all day on peace, and love, and sweet little souls.

But then, there are also the WARRIORS, who come to fight for the injustices, the wrong doings, the souls who got off a little TOO easy, perhaps missing their opportunity for growth by skipping ahead in the line in front of others, without doing the dirty work. Those who take more than give, who talk more than listen, who expect rather than deliver, who parade their ability to " be love" rather than fight for those who lost that ability along their life path, for whatever reason.

When I realized how I had been tricked, to think that if I wasn't able to spin guru rounds of constant loving I was a failure as a soul, I did something no short of metamorphosis: I got ANGRY.

There is real energy in Anger to propel energy in the right way of our path if we use it carefully. Sometimes Anger allows us to walk slowly again, where once we were unable. It can give us footing, to remember why, or even WHO we must stand up for. Maybe first, for ourselves, but I think, eventually when stronger again, to hold that anger for those still too floor stuck to be able to.

So I swung at Goddess Kali, and I glared menacingly into her hissing eyes and I demanded:

" Give me your staph!"

She smiled. She didn't hand me her staph. Instead, she bent down, and gave me the skull that had been under her foot.

" Go find the ones who died. "

I hadn't quite understood what she meant, then.

But her next gesture remained seared into my consciousness to this day:

She stuck out her tongue at me. Then galloped off singing, as if but a dream.

Me, and a headless skull, wondering what the hell to do next.

So I started to look for the other ones like ME, you know, the ones who died along the way under the foot of another who skipped ahead of me in line of the path to bliss.

And Anger opened his eyes just then, and smiled.

Not Your Ordinary Odd Couple On The Carousel Ride

Journal Entry: October 13, 2013

A life less ordinary might suffice to wake at 5 am to the beat of a toddler's monarchical demands to be fed and spoiled and race chores like an impending tornado at full fury. I skip eating breakfast in order to wear it these days, slabs of cold vanilla Greek yogurt plastered all over my face, chest and hands to ward off the cumbersome heat rashes that remind me that Time was once a luxury and Sleep is now a fantasy. The Pillsbury Dough boy came alive with his oven baked cinnamon rolls in bed to the movie MADAGASCAR while his feline kingdom circled our feet motioning me to not forget his humble protectors. As we linger in bed in full gluttony, I imagine inventing a pedometer like device that measures motherhood tasks and gives you a fair percentile rating to see how you're doing. I should get extra points for maneuvering army truck toys into imaginary sand mounds disguised by my Duvet and silk bedding.

At lunchtime, we baked pizzas with gobs of basil, lemons and oregano and washed it down with Lavender infused Watermelon smoothies I made us as Queen and Prince of Smoothie Land. I transformed my bathroom into a scene from the movie WHAT DREAMS MAY COME by dropping ELMO colored salt balls into the water that erupt into a technicolor wonderland with coconut scented candles whisking us to a vacation island while bathing. He naps. I contemplate taking a nap too. Never before have I felt as though I'd turn away Bob Parker's $100,000 the Price is Right Tour for simply an hour of Beloved sleep. Instead I pay bills and do my own nails. I think of all the people I wish I had energy to call and catch up with. I think somewhere along my life I became a "Thank you Maam" at the counter and a never-ending apology to my friends since becoming pregnant. Gatsby wakes from his nap. It's 2 pm and I'm still not dressed. I literally just throw on black tights under my pajama romper to go out with. Even my hair is on vacation. I feel like Elvis's mother every time I break out the hairspray and brush to side comb Gatsby's hair do. He stuffs a miniature car in his back pocket as we head out to the car.

We're like a short and tall version of The Odd Couple, we arrange our drinks in the cup holders, I pick out the music selection of the day while he peeks out the window. We arrive at the mall and immediately I head up to the Children's play area which could also be re-named Marilyn Manson's Playground. Apparently there is no such thing as a Fire Code # to how many children can be stuffed, thrown or rolled over one another in a play den. The typical Washingtonian parent balances their perfection neuroses on their children's "play style" while fingering their phones. I'd rather finger an Auntie Anne pretzel right about now. My son is the only child who doesn't interest himself with going DOWN the ladder..........he's the kid who would rather climb UP the ladder. (Eh Eh chip off the old motherly block now..) We leave to head over to Carbohydrates Hell. I deck out Gatsby's stroller like we have our own pretzel stand going: mustard packs, napkins, lemonade, salt AND sugar pretzel sticks. Salt then sugar. Sugar then salt. Why don't they create a chocolate dip for the sweet pretzels. DUH! Obviously the CEO of Auntie Anne's really IS A MAN.

I spot something in the distance. It's gathered quite a large crowd and strollers are barricading the scene in every direction. I turbo start my own and we roll on over. It's the mall carousel. Every weekend part time custody father tries to make up the guilt by bringing their kids HERE. I think I'm the only adult female in this line actually. Who knew Carousels was where you could meet men??? Hey I'm wearing my pajamas and smell like cinnamon buns so I'm half way there to the field folks. This is Gatsby's first time on a carousel. My horseback riding self tries to bunker my Arabian son on his first horse(albeit mechanical but still a horse) and he starts to cry. Loud. In front of all the Dads. I feel like the rookie who got tossed the ball for the team's final game seconds and I'm looking around .....At....All....The....Mall.....People....Eating...In...The......Food....Court.... .....Except...At..Chik-Fil-Let (God that's the only cool thing going for Christians these days, Sundays off from Chicken wings and milk shakes) and I realize that I can't terrorize my son by forcing him to sit on the horse so we move to the teacup seat (Aka: The Loser's Den) and I strap Gatsby close to me. I copy what all the fathers are doing which is take pictures obnoxiously of your kid with your Iphone. Gatsby looks utterly terrified. Looking terrified in the Losers Den on the carousel in front of the Dads and Food Court junkies is not good. This calls for desperate measures: I start cracking contorted faces while making strange animal sounds. My son is digging it. I resurrect Chris Farley in my imitations for my son. I BROKE THE CODE and got him to smile. The "Dads" are looking anxious now. My son is starting to full out LAUGH now, as the carousel winds us around and around with Italian figurines on the walls and Burlesque lights shining down on us and all the horses. We keep laughing and oinking and smiling and hee-hawing and he even lets go and waves his hands up in the air like the winding Rock & Roll ride at carnivals where they blast your ears off with 80's music and we are HAPPY. For every one of those 120 seconds, I felt my entire body pumping and pulsating every cell throughout my body, confirming what doubts I may have had these past few months (or years?) that I am, indeed, still A L I V E .

I looked down at my son's happy face and in that hurried second of time, thought of Mourad and how could he miss this?? And I understand the divine grace and meaning of the Resurrection of Life, how you can spends months in blinding unknowings, questioning even your very state of sanity at moments as a parent, and be instantly brought back to Life by the smile of your child's face on a carousel ride. And how that moment lives on, in you, or at least in your car a few minutes later as you look at the photos and I show Gatsby the "Goofy Mommy face pic" to him and he squeals rounds of laughter because he really does get it, that his mother is GOOFY BEYOND REPAIR, and it may or not be caused to sleep deprivation, but he's happy and I'm happy and we're smiling to the even the Dulles toll rd employees as we whizz through his booth like a thoroughbred come undone and we're both singing to Katy Perry's "Friday Nights" song and I know that in OUR world, every day is FRIDAY NIGHT for US.

“Then the carousel started, and I watched her go round and round...All the kids tried to grap for the gold ring, and so was old Phoebe, and I was sort of afraid she's fall off the goddam horse, but I didn't say or do anything. The thing with kids is, if they want to grab for the gold ring, you have to let them do it, and not say anything. If they fall off, they fall off, but it is bad to say anything to them.”

― J.D. Salinger, The Catcher In The Rye

WRESTLING FOR ELMO: Journal Entry September 12, 2013

GATSBY has been waking me up for weeks now at 5 am. I have officially declared the new Devil's Hour to be 5 am. All I remember about this morning was him wrestling me like a WWF pro with the cat as his tag partner, body slam after body slam and my face looked like one of those begging-for-mercy types you see on those wrestling revues, and I was rolled onto the floor by them like a rag doll and I looked up with one eye open and begged the stuffed animal audience to save me and I was looking at ELMO like he was the REF giving me the option to "Bow Out Now" but instead all he kept saying was "Awww, ELMO LOVES YOU" and I thought to myself, "Well someone is on my side here" and with the inspiration of a Starbucks Double shot can to inspire this underdog, I crawled back up to my knees, then I roared to Gatsby and the cat, and I did a Hulk Hogan biceps show on each side and the stuffed animal crows roared "YEAH!!!" and I got to both my feet to head to the kitchen to make breakfast and saw ELMO's eyes light up RED at the excitement and GATSBY demanded a re-match later.


Your Mother Has A Foot Fetish: September 7, 2013

My son and I went to a dinner party tonight. Before that we went to a giant flea market and he's such a pro, he whines if I don't take him to HIS section where the toys are before I go digging around. We're chomping on pretzels listening to Latino music blaring while I pretend the cart that Gatsby is strapped to is the Daytona 500 on acid and I'm wearing a slinky dress trying on Halloween wigs for fun.

He already has mastered the Man Moan of a Woman gone shopping too long.

We arrive at the party fashionable late. My son STILL doesn't say "Mama" but he DOES say "Mitch, MIIIIIITCH" who is his "Godfather Host" who is really like Martha Stewart's twin brother to which I sometimes worry my son MAY turn out to become a gay Broadway singer if left with too many Annie musicals and Mitch as his masculine role model. Mitch redeems himself by making hearty steaks and even my favorite artichoke dip to which I had to BEG Gatsby to even let me have a bite seeing his new thing is stealing my fork for his own and if I try to use it, drops to the ground dramatically like Kevin Kline does in that movie LIFE AS A HOUSE. The guests seemed "amusssed" by This shorter version of "The Great Gatsby" and they continue to clinck their glasses and talk intellectual talk while I fulfill my end of the flea market patience bargain with Gatsby and play blocks with him on the floor. We are mesmerized by Mitch's dead owls and birds hanging from the ceilings. I try to imagine how scary a dead owl hanging over your head if you're a toddler must seem.


Mitch disrupts my thinking by asking me over and over if I tried his "black bean salmon sauce." Whoever thought of matching beans with fish should be forced to sit an hour in a public rest room after everyone ate his recipe idea. Gatsby is now a track star trying to hurdle over everyone's legs while they keep talking and I've become the "annoying parent who brought their toddler to a dinner party" but they politely smile a "Thank god they're leaving smile" as I see Mitch stopped sweating that Gatsby did NOT spill something on his house's entirely new white carpets. I'm tempted to "accidentally" drop the black bean sauce but settle for an inside chuckle. We gallop to the car with the same mischievous idea....

We pull up to the Mcdonalds drive thru line ready to order our ice cream cones. We shock the cashier as MOMMY has now transformed into a power NINJa using the $10 Halloween mask she found so funny at Target. Like whenever I feel like a complete and utter failure as a mother, I put on my "Ninja mask" and feel powerful again. I'm pretty much wearing it 23 hours out of 24. The Mcdonalds kids look confused to see the Heartachehelper car with a Ninja-something and a kid in the back. We don't care because the clock has already started ticking as to who will be declared the winner in finishing their cone FIRST. I give him an equal playing field by ordering always the baby cone: it's a fair fight. I win although he wins MESSIEST eater and gets a HUGE prize: wearing my Ninja mask while slumped over my shoulder as he sleepily enters our home.

He is mumbling as I change him into his pajamas but when I reach his feet, and remove his socks daily to reveal his piggly-squiggly feet that I kiss to a point of ridiculousness(always worried that perhaps THIS is how feet fetishes occur so I monitor my time limit in this very delicious act for myself) he smiles at me in that all-knowing smile that yes, your mother is not ashamed to admit that she kisses your feet.

I wake.

My second dream in nearly five years.


I do not remember the first which occurred only last week, a sign that my months long regime at fighting the Lyme that has infected my entire body this long is being held back.


I am in Iraq. I am told for a specific mission. I can't even remember anymore for what reason. I am in the American bunker where rows of clothing, toiletries, personal photos of various family members and candy bars line every aisle. They throw me a hijab telling me to put it on and wear it everywhere here.


" You're one of them, now"


There was an immediate emergency to which every one was waiting for details as to when we'd be moving next. There was no purpose to even packing anything. The opposition was nearby, perhaps in this very neighborhood, and we had to slip undetected to the other side of town , somehow.


The men were heavily armed, the diplomats were carefully separated into different groups with armed men, and I was with a local Iraqi woman and agent. We were told to wait here while the others went ahead, to listen carefully for any gun fire, to act carefully if on the move, and to never, ever surrender. No one wanted to imagine becoming one of their sex prize slaves. That's what the vial of cyanide was for. I kept mine like a personal vial of perfume.


There was constant noise all around our building : ongoing rounds of fire in All directions, women screaming and the sound of cracked glass from when the tanks were piling through the streets. You were never sure at nearly every turn to which you were facing your enemy or your comrade. For this reason, we'd separate , often, to enhance our probability that we'd have more survivors arriving at target.


The prayers came on.


No matter what religion you are, you appreciated the ability to always face God perhaps one last time.


I peeked out a blown out window. I recognized the opposition group by their unified makeshift black flags on their convoys. They were searching the building next door. Some of their men were lazily talking in a group while a few others went inside. They seemed so relaxed. I always wondered how for such a detailed and precise and well armed unit, ours never mastered the art if seemingly not being worried despite our clear and abundant supply.


The Iraqi woman started to get hysterical. She understands their Arabic and seemed to react to something she heard. She goes running down one passage way while the agent went running after her. My legs were unable to move. I sat like a quiet , still Panther with only my hurried breath as my companion. I have mastered the art of making love to every breath calmly thanks to meditation. It has calmed me at the most important moments, no matter where.


I survey the room I'm now in. There are makeshift hidden passages burrowed in the walls, where one could technically squeeze their body in if the wall is somewhat stable and intact still to do so. I see one and see if there is enough cracks to guarantee adequate oxygen need. There is. I don't hear my comrades at all. I do hear the sound of loud men talking in Arabic approaching. I scurry into the crawl space which is dark and cool. I thank God for the reprieve from the heat to catch my own mind which is slowly deteriorating without water and form the constant 100 plus temperatures. And I pray.


There is ongoing rounds of gun fire in every room on this building . I am not sure even from which side. I am sweating so much that my hijab and hair are both wet. I can smell my own sweat. I realize that I am tired, something about this heat. And I remember the feeling of just wanting to slip away......


And then I woke up.


In my bed HERE. And I couldn't decide if I should be ecstatic that I was dreaming again. So much effort to try and separate my dreams from the nightmares.


I tried, instead, to focus on the homemade doughnuts we picked up at the farmer's market yesterday. I laid them out on the kitchen table over a paper towel. I was preparing them for my son to wake up to, like little presents he'd wake up to for Christmas, so beautiful and multi colored in their sugary debauchery.


And against the advice of every single Dr regarding the best way to kill every last Lyme spirochete, I decided to take a single bite out of each of the five doughnuts there.


I'd rather remember the sweetness of the forbidden food.
Will AMERICA Please STOP THE INSANITY!!!


Journal Entry, November 10, 2013

I feel like a Mystery Science Theater bunny always noting and sarcastically commenting in my mind all that I seem to come across each day. Am I the only one who does this?! For example, why is it that in every store nowadays, you need to have your "membership card" on you that I can't keep track of whether I'm even getting a discount or I am suppose to be counting points, or which texts reminders I want or coupons mailed to me snail mail or an annoying email daily which is more often than I hear from my own family? Are you noticing how difficult it is to even walk inside a store nowadays? The new trend in parking lots and stores is to place so much inventory, stacked around you like vines that my eyes get tired just trying to place where UP and DOWN is. You don't know even where the cashiers are because standing lines are like VIP nightclub lines with eye candy inventory so tall, I don't know where this line I'm standing in is even leading me to! Have you ever been in a store using a cart and accidentally rolled over your own foot, or someone else's, because there is so much merchandise everywhere, even your shopping cart can't squeeze through?

What happened to all the mirrors in stores? Perhaps they got rid of them all so you won't notice how six year olds in Taiwan are stealing the American jobs we're lacking. While grocery shopping in America, everything has become about "exclusivity." There is literally almost two sides, Organic or CHEMICALLY GIGANTIC PRODUCE ON STEROIDS, (Wow, I had forgotten how small real strawberries actually are..) If I choose to buy organic raspberries but reason myself that a "normal banana" coming in from Chile can't be "that badddd" for you that other people "glare at me as if I'm Honey Boo Boo's long lost cousin doing WHAAAAATTTTT!!! GASP!!!! Buying an ORDINARY banana!!!" Is everyone like I am where you have pretty much stopped eating solids because grocery beverage lanes have expanded so quickly that even Bob Marley's post death branding machine have concocted a "Reggae Infused Yerbe Mate tea in flavor "Psychedelic Passionflower." (HUH?) I have so many different types of drinks in my cart now: protein drinks, Kombuchu tea that blows up your intestines but in a good way, Energy drinks mimicking the look and feel of a 40 oz beer can, Vitamin waters, Natural "Unnatural" milk (Almond milk) with now protein added to the product. (Um, I thought nuts already had protein in them?) I've even seen Black colored water! Don't get me started on the sad state of American rest rooms these days. Fuck Black Friday rage...I want to rage when I can't seem to ever secure even one flap of toilet paper for myself with those closed contractual toilet paper roll containers where I feel an anxiety attack come on if I don't manage to both wipe my ass and contain my son, all before the sound of the automatic toilet flush goes off. Ditto on paper towels. And don't let your hands touch those beautiful, five dollar container of raspberries you just bought as the chemicals on your hands left over from the soap you just used is probably not good for you either.

And what annoys me MORE than the occasional Baby Boomer still holding up a line hand writing out a check during the digital age, is that when I choose to actually participate in bagging my own store finds, I may spend more time trying to figure out how to peel apart the flimsy plastic bags with my fingers to which I must now TRIPLE bag to ensure that things won't be falling out around my ankles while unloading the car. (Exclusivity has creeped up in America even with just judging people based on whether they tote and show up their custom designer grocery bags or not. I feel the hot stares down my neck at a local Trader Joes when I answered "YES" to the question of whether or not I needed bagging. I turn behind me and tell one woman to go back for thirds at the Hot Dog Blintzes samples table. And don't think that just because you paid $4 for a sealed, pre-sliced container of cantaloupe that it's going to last long: I have mini competitions with noting that no container I ever buy from Trader Joes actually stays fresh longer than a day. Been to a Best Buy lately? Notice how they're down to ONLY ONE LANE for available CD's to buy? How about a BARNES & NOBLES? Where are the BOOKS? It appears that B & N is trying its hand at selling more "exclusive children's toys for the Exclusive families who already paid $8 for a pound of organic green grapes." Remember when J C PENNY said they'd never do a sale again because they're just going to give us THE LOWEST PRICE possible right from the get go? Well then what are all these email coupons for then? If you've ever taken your child to an indoor mall play area to get them tired out, you're often crunched shoulder to shoulder with other texting parents who are busy browsing liability insurance in case they, or their children, sustain a massive injury which is probable considering how many children literally, like, FLY THROUGH THE AIR while playing all over each other. And now I'm paranoid because I can't tell if that goofy father with his daughter is actually filming her playing or trying to upskirt film ME.

Then you finally get back in your car and you're surrounded by people knocking at your car window for money. They throw on a flimsy colored vest and break out a boot, or plastic jar, and tote a sign "Support Your Local High School students going to BURNING MAN..." They've just agreed to hitch a ride with their pan handling competition, "the Homeless Man" who gets an A for the ability to market a sign that both LOOKS and TEARS at your heart strings for their "situation" to which you feel like a SELFISH PRICK if you sit and just actually listen to music in your car but then as you scramble for that change, you notice the "bum" is wearing Nike Airs and an LL Bean jacket. The worst is the Motherfucker Fake Bum who makes his WIFE and CHILD sit there WITH him as she talks on her cell phone.

I was reminded of all this "Ridiculousness" stuff tonight as I proceeded to make my purchase for a "reasonable exclusivity toy" for my son, a small celestial roaming stars lamp, and the cashier proceeds to "sell me" on not ONLY buying the B & N membership card, but ALSO help donate to needy children: your $5 donation goes to buying books for those "non-exclusive" children. I couldn't help it by this point in my weekend when I blurted out in front of everyone, "Only in America do we think "going without books" means you're needy. In Uganda, a child dies from malaria, a preventable disease where the vaccine costs only $1, and could save a life every minute. I'm going to hold off on your book offer and try and save 5 children tonight." Then I went a little tongue in cheek and asked, "How much is that box of Godiva chocolates there?" just to prove my point.

All of these little moments came up again, as Gatsby & I ate dinner tonight and I read on today's front page of the Washington Post the "Epidemic of Obesity and Diabetes" for the majority of Americans on food assistance. The Post's angle was that if the poor would simply "get an education" they could be educated enough to 1) Make better food choices and 2) Get a job easier and therefore afford a healthier lifestyle. I guess they never thought about the OTHER possible solution which is to stop letting corporate companies blow through employee's IRA funds and a select few live a life of "$5 Raspberries and "Breaking Bad lab style Kombucha drinks" to unleash the BULLSHIT they keep doing to all those around them. (*Cough* WALMART) Even WalMart employees must pay full price for their snack and drink during their break time which comes out averaging one hour of wages from that work day. Let's just hope one FAT, OVER CARTED, HONEY BOO BOO buying employee doesn't go AWOL and decide to buy a gun fairly easily at WALMART and show their fellow man what HELL it could be trying to get through an already overcrowded store during a shooting rampage. At least the candles are already at the front of the store.....

MY POETRY


The Mustang

Exquisite, you were
like the breeze from a monsoon's damp afternoon, unpredictable
and wild, you raged, and loved
with your dilated pupils cut open by fear
caressing my hands with your desires--
your History, as blackened
as the wild fires of Mumbai's forgotten passageways

Uncontrollable, despite an attempt to ride you
you clenched my faith, in the bit of your
restlessness--
never swaying towards your own luscious awakening
I offered you a taste, of delicacy
ripened by the Earth Goddess above
a mother to replace all lost mothers, to all those lost
in the tracks of Life's never ending blindness

Spell bounding madness leaked out and
for a moment, our Truths aligned
to take our souls away to Mexico's pink topped beaches
and purple-glazed Argentinian tango halls
nestling along, close side by side ,
on white Moroccan sands
grabbing other lost soul's in Congo's weary forest graves
and you were so free--

And I believed again, if only so briefly
that we can ride the untamed Mustang,
in Hope's reins of passion
We cannot escape Truth- and awakening
from last night's dizzying fall, I remembered
the thrashing and poking of my denial
my legs numb from the wanting

Woman and beast in the same galloping leap
taken, willingly by the carrying force unexplained
maybe from the tiring pace of running alone
that despite the calamitous face slappings and
awkward bit in the mouth restrained--
forcing our vision backwards to the past
We no longer resist the submission demanded

The total domination of our destiny required
the volatile knowings of Love's double sided pains
Only between there, can the rider and ridden come into perfect sync
bondage broken, and the wild unpredictability of Love's hold
released, and set free once more.

Nourredine

He was born in the pale ambers of Numidia
Between shards of glass horns and mountain pastures
His eyes, seized by a mountain lion who was really Amun
Hungry to seize the entire world with one claw
They say his eyes bled beautifully, with drips of
Pearls and myrrh
All the hummingbirds came back to him
Cooing his name .....Nourredine

His mouth was a patch of berries, a gift they say from Thor
Who visited his land many moons ago, wanting to know the more
For while he danced Rahaba at sunset, children flocked to see
If the man who all feared and loved most loyally were truly something to see
"He stole my heart upon first glance, now give it back to me!"
He look back at all the stars beholden, while on his bended knee
"Little ones, I am but just one of you, my name simply..... Nourredine."

One day, he placed a raven on one shoulder while walking into town
"I shall call him "Oden" and never force him to be bound"
He will show me the entire world, any question's answer released
For in my country's highest places, an honest answer is still beseeched.
A soccer feud erupted, thus prompting the bird to be counselor
The bird was never seen thereafter, for it was not on the master's side
Angered and bewildered, the bird pleaded
"I am not from Barcelona, my friend Nourredine...."

By this point he had decided to betroth no commoner
A mad hatter's day dream to explore the lost and forgotten
Led him down to a sand dune filled with peaches and a boy
Mistaken for a prince, he landed on all fours to play but
The boy shouted " here comes Iðunn!"
A gown sequined in a thousand wings, black lace and raspberry lips
Couldn't have disguised his mothers smitten glances and " what's this?"
To which he dropped to kiss her hand, " I'm Nourredine" and I bring fire and bliss
His beloved smirked at his handsomeness and then willfully returned his kiss.

He had but neatly conquered his happiness until destiny decided to play
Games of wicked displacement as to where to live or stay
Fate held his desire in bondage, his hands tied behind his back
His future, a mirage of whispering tribulations, always from a lack
He thought there was no solace, no place where he could dream
Of Moorish nights bequeathed in red rubies, laying next to his Queen
She told him to close his eyes, his lashes long and wet, created an
Ocean to pull them closer, a scene no one could forget
Dreams are what you make them if you fight to make them seen
It's what I learned in loving you, my lover


The Hottest Ride

Chewing on Hot Tamales
Bite my tongue, swallow that heart
Girl, Got to find your way back, you say you wonder
And I tell you that I’ve gone down the
Wrong way, this turn of fate, disguised as coincidence
Make that sin go another way
Here, it stopped by to say hello
Checking in on the mademoiselle, moist lips
Clicking back onto the cruel road of love, my Master
Tells me to stop shocking the flowers, yellow daisies
I bled on their petals, my garden now ruined
And I blinked out the sunshine from my redemption
Scurrying all over the place for those damn seeds
Texas is no place for a girl without cowboys and I’m
Searching for something suitable, to say, to be
And he laughs wispy rings of cigar smoke into my hair
So I slap the expression off his face with my disappearance
Take that Mr. BBQ-ribs-blocking-my-view-of-what’s-there
And I hit the carnival with my pooch in tow, sucking on
Candy apples and cotton candy like a teenager in heat, take me
On that ride over there, the stars came all over my hair, cruel
To feel this good, all free for once, the price of the ride, her cocaine
And I didn’t get sick like I thought I would, the monkey takes my hand in his,
I’m nearly home now, turning back to see the commotion, those devils
Fist fighting for their refund, and I orgasm right there in front of them
Just to show them I can, and their tongues fall out of their heads, crooked indeed
And the Psychic Lady shouts over the Fried Dough stand “She’s got her Ticket!”
I see it now, mounds of wrinkled flesh covered by a turquoise stone ring and purple nails
The paper gold, my fate written there, sent from city to city, sparkling under the Red Lights
This nightmare never allows waking souls their proper rest, and call my name, I shout
Damn you! Clowns want to fool me into their games, silent ruby lips, reeling in suspense
Showing me peacocks and cheetahs, and I begin to remember the first time
Me and my curiosity, holding hands under the tent that night, under Scorpio’s rage
Fuck, it was beautiful to be the center of your world then
But they replaced you, my sweet Pony, the one that I rode out in my glittering costume
And you beamed that night, yes you did, and it was the last real good thing
I felt before bed every night thereafter.

The Sap Son

Those other souls from the Underworld kept you too long
and look at how hard it is to breathe above water, suffocating
for swimming too close to the edge, Hold on!
I'm here still beside you to show you the way.

If you stay in place too long the trees will split
their branches open wide to contain your beauty
so that those women don't fight for your attention
Love and Death fed you by their breasts, and see?

It was inevitable that your blood would spill
between your passion and your rage
during that time of year you were left alone
All the while, they were in the next room.

Beauty had a price now didn't it?
And floating between the two worlds
drowning and floating and drowning and floating
all the while they keep looking on for you to return to them

In paintings since, they show you always suffering
the angst is what they want to remember
for beauty was not what they would relate to you by
and so they re-enact the suffering so well known to them

Take a cue from Pandora, my love
for when she opened her box, the entire world fell over
pieces of her reflected back what they couldn't bare to see and
failed to hold onto, Hope.

Close the chest you just crawled out from Adonis.

Becoming

Deep inside of me
Lays a secret desire, a wish so feverish, so vivante
that the bees haven’t stopped stinging me for the sweet desire, revealed
to them first, so that they can then carry the hearty weight of all of those little tricks, And I tell them, over and over,
that their stings don’t hurt me anymore.
Little drops of perspiration fall down on my head, ticklish almost
But that still doesn't break me
After all, this is nothing
compared to all those little tricks that Life has played on me
This isn't nothing
Prissy girl, they whisper into my ears,
pulling back my hair with their fingers,
And the hot air coos into the tunnel of all those hidden passage ways
So many people try to get in there and come out but they always get
Lost, somewhere,
Between the archways of Michaelangelo’s grasp and he called me once, too,
His magnificence spread out all over the place,
That “I’m on Fire” look on his face again, as he
molded and shaped me into his favorite butterfly
Telling me to go play in the fields of nectar and poison berries
So ripe were the possibilities then
And I believed back then, yes I did
Into the heavy world I went, and I looked back to ask him
“Why me?”
He told me that ecstasy and agony always played with each other, nightly
And well then he wanted to carve me,
To set me free.
Making me into what he thought was his own personal angel.
I didn't know what love was then.
So off, I went and played, l
looking towards the direction of suntanned feet. I played until I hurt
Here I am now, starting to just visually appear to you
Make me come, come, come Michaelangelo
You see, the fragments, all pieces of something, all too familiar, yet missing
Years of playing with suntanned feet and stinging bees, biting
And I’m not looking as pretty as you imagined, oh denial!
But you keep going, and you keep wanting
The agony and the ecstasy
Blackened now, dangerous, I’m entertaining you in your
own misguided dreams of fantasy, for Truth was never so beautiful
And so, you and I continued to circle around and around,
And I feel stupid, and you touch me
And hold on, hold on and hold on.
You start seeing something and touch it, deeper and deeper, burrowing my depths
Until the denial is hardly noticeable and you tell me “that’s perfect”
Touching the inner slate of my apprehensions, you perfect the spell
Both hands holding on to me so tightly
One to push away those bees and one to caress the girl
Art, in all dimensions, yielding only towards the unraveling of my own
Becoming.

Holy A-Mart

Rugged man pulled up to me at a purple gas pump on
Highway 66

Whiskers longer than a cat’s tinged with a shot of
Jack Daniels

His metallic side mirror exposing my crying behind my Gucci sunglasses

He nodded, he understood maybe, just slightly

The clear night mooning the stars on our backside a shotty splash

Of misaligned intentions Come on Cowboy Look now, Outta A-Mart

That Mary, so pale and beautiful, chewing on a Beef Jerkey stick winking

For your place on the back of your bike a Virgin in Levi’s

And a polka dot top reminding me as I wash my car’s windshield

That even God needs Mary to remind him sometimes Hurry up!

He’s riding ahead now her hair extending behind that wicked blessed smile

A sprinkle of stars wetting my skin like the velocity of my fears chasing Time.


THE GROTESQUES


(Written around 2004 after my Dot Com busted and FOR the characters involved during this time. )

"That in the beginning when the world was young there were a great many thoughts but no such thing as a truth. Man made the truths himself and each truth was a composite of a great many vague thoughts. All about in the world were the truths and they were all beautiful. It was the truths that made the people grotesques. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood."

Sherwood Anderson, WINESBURG, OHIO


THE RINGMASTER

Step right on up, to the greatest show on earth!

The grotesques are all here to show you their worth

Your Ringmaster is here, my collar fits the bill

To tell you all a story that will satisfy your fill

The audience craves its trickery, the eye to be blinded by hoax

You’ll have to decide at the end of this who told the greatest joke

Some madwomen, show clowns, even a wild cat in there

Every person wanted a role in this show, competition everywhere

They came out in large numbers from places no one had ever heard

Each of them scrambled ferociously to have the very last word

Who was I to determine which one of them would make the final round

Their talents and trickery unleashed left an impression that is sound

We all believe in the motto: One for All and All for One

I tried to remind the ensemble cast that this was suppose to be fun

To which they replied, "Where is the drama in all of that?"

They are the entertainers and I am merely their host

I was never good at distorting reality which is how I like it most

I let them play out their performance as this is what they enjoy best

They live for the applause and attention, nothing more and nothing less.


DON'T YOU KNOW WHO I AM


With a stroke of my pen, I tell the tattle again

Pushed to this dimension, I must cover all pretensions

Traded my validity for a ride on the circus cavalcade

Now I'm hanging with all the socialites who want to get made

It’s me and the collagen babes, sipping souls over merlot

Now it’s only a question of how low can I go?

Don't you know who I am is all they need to know

I've covered the missing faces, the Playboy babies, the chat room hear say

I'm a bonafide superstar at least according to my fan base

They gave me an assistant and a VIP pass to boot

I've nearly sold out to sensationalism in favor for the loot

Who cares if the pieces match up perfectly?

It only needs to get papers sold for the big WP

As long as I do what they tell me, I can avoid the penalty

Of not knowing where the real stories begin, including inside of me

But I guess that's pretty typical of Washington, this story of who knows who

I'll go down in the history books for revealing suppose of truths

As least I go out with a bang as they are throwing me a party

I missed out on wars, elections, policy making and even the tsunami

It is my sincere desire to stay remembered in some capacity

As the man you could confide your secrets to, Mr. Lost Identity.



THE VAMP

Want to be ready for when they call out my name

It has always been my dream to make love to fame

This vaudeville vixen mommy has traded places before

always changing my act so you'll be wanting for more

I'm the girl with a story to cover up my depression

willing to sell out my soul to get any impression

The crowds come from all over to see my pantomime

I flirt with their senses and mix reality with lies

I've been all over the city doing a shuffle and curtsey

wearing stilettos in bitch lounges while pumping ecstasy

I'm the fishnet-wearing vamp with a song and tale to tell

I've sold out my manners from the Mosuo minority

Even after they saved me from my marriage that failed miserably

I can't help it though as this is why I dance and sing

Searching forevermore to avoid the painful sting of me


CONTRARY MARY

Tickled by the prospects of a life well preserved

I headed over to China to teach our spoken word

I fell in love with a dragon with a face of a quilin

His five toes disappeared suddenly whenever I neared him

He taught me the gift of fire and to wield a silver sword

I learned to walk the tight rope, balancing dishes for my Lord

It is here I learned my talent that today I proudly display

Of how one can trick the crowd to go any which way

It starts out with their favor from winning over their trust

I make them believe that I am their hero, faithful and just

It is then I point out my flaws if only to grab a sympathy tear

They of course respond that I could do anything and cheer

For a split second, I dangle in mid-air, fire roaring from my mouth

Memories pass by my conscience as I battle reason all about

Sometimes I feel guilty for the trick but this is what the crowd comes for

Balancing illusion and betrayal is part of this show's pores

So I give them the trick and sacrifice the better part of me

This is what the crowd expects from their fire mistress, Contrary Mary.

SHIPWRECK

My lothario has lost his anchor to his ship that was named baby

He use to shine her sea boards with a rare breed of apathy

Each stroke was guided by his strong hand, fingers clenched for necessity

For as he use to tell me, the sea is not you and me

Its shores collect algae and phlegm, preying on its weakened coast

Heart pigments of imagination are what the devil fish devour most

Tis why I don’t dine on specialties he reveals under moon’s ghost

It only makes the tide hurry faster to carry you away from life’s toast

So I renounced my desire for sailing as I am not use to swimming alone

The gushing blue depths below me are a precursor to all that is already known

Their waves will bend me forward to a temper bath of misunderstanding

They will part the depth between us to leave neither of us standing

What floats to surface after disintegration of motivation

Was the very simple part of being that my baby left hanging

It is why our boat kept drowning despite my hesitation.


MASTER OF ILLUSION

With a masterful stroke of the key

I set up the mystical show that you see

Master of illusion and fanciful fury

The performers rush about me in dizzying hurry

Full of original sins and castrated voices, I answer

to every whim, my fingers furiously are sequestered

into a spellbinding dizziness, magenta marries censure

And I get to imagine that perhaps I am near her

Our paths have not crossed, my Delilah from mystical place

Her weak side is hidden when I camouflage her face, by smoke

Her aroma is found in the halls near my sound booth and chair

I have sold everything I am to follow her show everywhere

In hopes that maybe she'll recognize and see me, for what

all the other performers seem to extinguish extremely

A boy with bantam talents and reputation besmirched

Mixing brass sounds and dim lighting from on top of my perch

I accentuate my fantasies with melodies of slander, from my

booth tucked behind this show, it is me who motions "Begin!"

Performers who seek proper attention and my booth lets them IN.


THE LION KING OF LEON

Time on me is wasted time looking back

This lion's heart was captured tragically by attack

Everyone wants to hear a mighty roar and a purr

My trainer tried her best to get me to submit under her

At first I was lured by the infinite possibilities

of trying out new places, from Birmingham to mango trees

I had a way of making other tigers all jealous of me

It was always easy to escape suspect without my stripes to announce me

Some shows are better from the sidelines than in front of screaming babies

I was too lazy to wake from napping or defend the Kingdom of Me

What is the point of aspiring for a bellowed jowl and the greatest leap

If the point of my existence is to remain caged and half asleep

There is no more wilderness to roam and discover, no sunsets to follow

I have lost my soul to this life circus and live out my destiny of sorrow


THE WORLD’S STRONGEST MAN

With the face of a schoolboy and the wit of a quipster

Matched with equal part stamina, poetry and trickster

I was assigned the task of holding up barrels with my fingers

So I became very strong at making the ladies hearts linger

I would impress them every night with the stories I could tell

About how I made the weaker men cringe fear, beg, or yell

By simply making the illusion that I could pick up anything

With the smallest bone in my toes and the promise of a ring

I'd show them how I could joust a car, clown or cheer

I would do whatever it would take to make a lady come near

She'd be proud to show the crowd that I was her lad and then chime:

"Just look at how I landed The Strongest Man you can find!"

To which I'd hoist her up high on my left shoulder with her thigh

And expose to her in private the desire in my eyes

I could always mark their weakness, their hubris was the same

And eventually I'd get bored in trying to remember their names

They would follow me after the show always looking for another round

I was never good at picking up relationships or staying bound

This is why I love the circus, these misfits of misery keep

A place where I can hide my secrets and never wake from beauty sleep


MS. KNOW NO (Otherwise Known As WONKETTE)

Stranded on the streets from the boss who released me

For not grabbing the story's core and crossing all my T's

I found myself traveling in the back of a Washington taxi

Full of Gucci-clad journalists who had never heard of me

When asked what kind of writer I imagined myself to be

I chuckled sheepishly, "the one who exposes infamy"

To which they responded that I was in the perfect place

To expose the dross of society without meeting them face to face

So I arranged a meeting with the Barnum crew in giving me my own booth

A place to which soul tickets can be traded daily with visitors uncouth

They pay for tips with a variety of invidious techniques or sham

Then tap their fingers anonymously, "Bring us more stories now Ms. Cyber Glam!”

I can't say that I do not enjoy the attention, this role as the circus keeper

Handing out ride tickets, stamping punch lines and disqualifying the weaker

It is easier to perform daily from my crawl-space than to join the other performers

Who are in constant need to nurse fractured egos, lackluster performances and frequent turnovers

I'm the one to know to enter this show, the greatest show on earth

Where wannabees line up religiously to order cotton candy doused in dirt


LE PETIT CHIEN

Round and round, the magnetic lights envelope me

My little tail wagging ever so ferociously

I'm from the land of medieval kings and brie

Placed appropriately here after my Maman left me

I may be small but size has come to magnify my speed

I can chase after the clowns and elephants who never reach me

My trick does not come from a mighty hoax or vision askew

I've always thought myself better than the others without a clue

I carry show accessories for the trapeze girls’ agile feet

In hopes that they'll recognize that I'm more than just "Le Petit"


THE FLESH PERFORMERS

Remember to breathe, he says as we mount

One more time that we've got to make this count

Night after foresight, fight before flight, I try and try

to trust that he'll catch me as I swing from on high

We twist each other's flesh while swinging sins

It's all been a lie to this audience, no matter who wins

I am the split twin who like a thorn tears his reason

he, always catching glances from other faces, commits treason

Nearly dropping me, our fingers clenched tightly by this swaying string

Rocking back and forth, perspiration stains costumes glittering

The audience lets out a palpable gasp by the horror they have seen

of what happens to two love-torn performers who forget everything.

THE NET

Between the place where heros catch applause

and belly aches pain

my dear Etheria climbs to the top of her line,

her limbs still bruised from yesterday's practice

with the monkeys who fight to trip her step,

distract her with their tales, hairy indeed

She fights to get them to walk in a straight line,

one pink-toe in front of one white bruise to go,

com'on! Depechez! I have a pilgrimage to make today,

and they swing their snarls from on up high,

and she tells them that they will never see Mt. Sinai

if they don't hurry up, its an important time now

They don't listen to her though, and one jumps on

a light fuse, and another jumps to a curtain roll,

and the audience below gasps for the little creatures

who fall further away from the safety of the Net, its

inevitable that they will tumble and as she looks up

to catch their starting point, it is then that she watches in disarray

The little scoundrels who fly in somersaults with tumid egos

to a place down below that is outside of her reach and even

further from the original destination.

BAILEY THE CLOWN

I knew a friend once.

He knew himself too.

Whenever he came over to my dressing room, we use to paint our life travels.

Imagined places like red ruby rocks over white crystal mountains.

He was there everyday with a laugh to share, my life was in his hands, painted everywhere.

I trusted him completely, my beautiful Bailey clown

Then he hung himself quietly during the final act one night

In one hand laid his conscience and the other laid a life.

SOMETHING SWEET

I step up to the candy bar stand

one foot in front of the other, tiny toes

all inched between other hard bodies who are

still searching for something sweet

something that reminds them of when they were

once young, once believers in the power of

an Oreo, the best part of the cookie is the cream

the sticky place between the center of souls

that everyone wants to rush for, push each other

out of the way! They scream at me, telling me

to wait my turn, why don't you get a pretzel:

they're hard, and you can nibble on the corners

or why not try a candy apple, the kind you can

break a heart over, or fried dough, cover up that mess

with a little bit of this or a little bit of that and wash it

all away with an Iced Tea that takes you to another place

and yet I know better, it's all a ploy to get me out of this line

faster, so that they can jump over my place here, in hopes

to take a big bite out of that black and white delectable prize

They'll crunch and rush through it, smackety lips smacking away

thinking that they got the best part after all, and I'll get to my place

in line, finally I'm here, and I place all my bets on this one reward

enjoying the white soul center immediately without having to

sacrifice my appetite through overprocessed treats that hardly

fill me up at all and make me only hunger for more of something,

that something that no one understands is right there in front of them,

if only they would stop and realize that the best treat of all

is the center of every appetite.


PUBLISHED in CHRONOGRAM MAGAZINE

Strawberry Cupcakes

Baby, oh yeah

What do ya want?

Your cakes, baby (yeah, those cakes)

Racing, sashaying with three good wheels and a bubblegum-laced cart

Yeah, I am racing with my purple tiered hat, the one that disguises me

and turns this handicapped game cart into my own Hollywood Raceway, one hand

on the steering wheel, the fidgety-sticky surface, and another waving to

the Guyanese lady with the grey stripe down the middle of her hairline, she nods

as she polices the crowd from her $2 Made-in-China-shipped-to-WalMart chair

The sniff sniff of day old fried chicken and blue cheese crumbles makes the

babies begin to cry,

They wouldn’t cry if they had one of my strawberry cupcakes

He tells me, half-seriously, Come on now I’m hurrying

Strawberries ashamed of their hometown, sugar-coke, hormone-free eggs

Poufs of flour thrown in the air, imagine kids that snowstorms come inside

This Candyland, where M I A is the Peppermint Stick Forest’s fairy godmother

And the gingermen take your photo in the restrooms

Mix it, stir it, smoothness out of clumps of madness, pink riverbeds pouring in

I’m riding this amazing heat wave out over at the Molasses Swamp, sticky indeed

Ooops, I did it again, and again and again and again,

I’m pissing off Queen Frostine again with my nonchalance, late again she says

Yeah but I got the goods I tell her, settle in hotcakes look, foil unwrapped

In a barely lit theater, and despite the blackness and the delay, an impish smile

Appears, yeah that’s what I’m talking about, a couple of sinful girls smiling

Over strawberry cupcakes, the kind that makes everyone twitch backwards to

see the competition.

MY IMPRESSIONS OF ALGERIA

My first impressions of Algeria came in the form of Mourad’s blond-haired mother, who’s caramel skin and doe-brown eyes rival that of Jennifer Lopez. She was calling my name and her warmth ran through my soul as if I had been her daughter all of my life. Her youngest, Ramzy, all of 8 years old and surely the spitting image of my fiance at his age, trailed her and was ready to take my hand in his to lead me outside of the airport towards the car. I was selective in what I decided to wear on my flight to ensure a reputable first impression: I wore a purple Mediterranean patterned wrap dress, caramel knee high boots and a light pink trench coat. After 12 hours on two planes, feeling the warm Algerian sunshine was greatly appreciated. I was eager to take off my jacket but worried as to the impression I would give to a nearly all-male airport. Mourad’s mother edged me “Vas-y!” and with that I walked out of the Algerian International airport with my new family en tow and an entire airport staring at the only white woman around!

Mourad’s father reminded me of Humphrey Bogart in that his classic form of masculinity that is quickly dying in our time today: bronzed skin, built thickly for his age and always a cigarette pressed short between his last two fingers. He talks of stories about his country with pride. It is him who shows me the historical side of Algeria. He is a diver and reminds me of the Arab version of Jacques Cousteau. He is an avid storyteller not afraid to laugh at his own jokes and at you at the same time. He is a Leo, like my father, who takes great pride in his huge family and in that, he reminds me greatly of my father who also enjoyed entertaining the house guests with humor.

There was traffic outside of the airport typical of all major cities at 5 o’clock. Mourad was unable to meet me at the airport due to final exams and so I was getting to know his family during our 5 hour car ride. I was blown away by how mountainous the terrain was and as Mourad’s father drove at nearly 120 miles per hour around the dangerous curves, I prayed to GOD for the first time in awhile that I would not die that day. Little Ramzy was always trying to woo me with offers of oranges, cookies, chips and ongoing kisses on my hand. I think I had never been so heartbroken as when I caught his face upon arrival meeting Mourad and Ramzy had to pass me off to him.

There is a beautiful, wide, ongoing mountainous terrain to Algeria. It rivals that of New York State’s or Virginia’s in its height and the dents are more profound. You feel as though your car could fall into the crevice of the Earth and be swallowed up at any bad turn. There are no perfectly arranged gas station stops, restaurant signs or family picnic areas along the highways of Algeria. Which is why when I requested at hour four to stop off for a bathroom break, it was with a bit of guilt as I learned that Mourad’s father needed to locate a smaller city to stop off in at sunset to locate an appropriate place where a Western woman could use a bathroom. We found a small peasant town, not much different in look or feel from an Indian village only it lacked the bright colored outfits to distract you away from its poverty. There were nothing but rows and rows of young, Arab men hanging out in groups, on corners, in cafes and kiosks. I had to fight hard to even locate a single woman and if I did, she was usually completely covered in the traditional dress leaving only her face visible to the world. Imagine then my fear in getting out of the car in my wrap dress and boots without a jacket to cover me! Mourad’s father followed me into the café and motioned towards where the bathroom was. I hurried in and realized that my long ago memory of a Turkish style bathroom was coming back now. I thanked India at this moment for installing in me the perfect packing of antibacterial wipes, aromatherapy sprays, and tissues to which any regular traveler prepares in advance. There was evidence in that bathroom of the fact that only men probably used this bathroom ever. I can’t say that it was the worst bathroom I've ever used. To that, India still holds the title. There was certainly never an Indian as cute as Ramzy waiting for me outside with a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant. Despite my noticing that the entire cafe of men were staring at me, I sat with Mourad’s father and Ramzy and enjoyed being the center of this town’s world for about 15 minutes. By the time I left to get back into the car, there was an entire line on both sides of the street looking at us and I felt as though I was in a completely different world.

Descending into the city of Oran, the second largest city in Algeria, you get the feeling that this is the city where diversity is most welcome. It is a city on the ocean, an ocean that seems to touch you in its height no matter what angle you are looking at it from. Oran is the biggest port of Africa and so rows of boats from various countries circle below the winding rows of mountains and the Spanish Saint Maria church overlooking her Algeria children. The city is windy constantly, with rows of laundry hanging outside windows like any Roman household, and doors so beautifully crafted and tinged in blues, pinks and mint greens. There are small shops like those in France, and small markets selling trinkets like those of India. We finally arrived to Mourad’s home, a tan colored apartment building to which a designated watchman oversees everyone’s cars for a small monthly allowance to ensure nothing gets stolen. That is the only remnant of the leftover civil war that passed here ten years ago.

When I met Mourad, it was as if I was meeting my other half. His numerous calls to his mother during our car ride ensured that enough tortured had ensued him in his missing out in picking me up himself. Many people doubted as to whether or not our connection would last after meeting in person: I can only attest, not exactly explain, how it is that when you meet your Twin Soul, there is no doubt. It’s as if you’you've known each other from another life and this is simply a homecoming. Our mannerisms are similar, our habits matching, our means of communicating so alike that even his mother and father have agreed that it seems destiny could not have been stopped. Despite being unsure of how intimate we could be in expressing our delight in finally meeting in front of his entire family, we kissed and embraced. And as I would come to later know, physical expressions of affection do not escape the Chikhi family. In only a few days, I feel as though I have been adopted in with all of the continuous insisting of “Manges!” (Eat!) kisses from Ramzy and Mourad, little jokes from Mourad’s middle sister, Apina, and brother, Mohammed, as well big rounds of jokes, questions and laughter from Mourad’s father.

Mourad was so wonderful in showing me his world, his family, his room, his designs. I felt a bit like Santa Claus giving out gifts, hearing rows of laughter over a homemade dinner of French fries, chicken, hot pepper pickles and the best tasting flatbread of my life! Mourad’s family of seven share a four room apartment. The concept of “separate space” does not exist in this culture and other than with the exception of when I may want to use the bathroom without the entire family noticing me, I feel completely comfortable because they are such a close, loving, well-connected family. They help each other, they respect each other and there has never been a moment of ill-ease or arguing since I arrived. The family all spend their nights sitting in their living room with their flat screened TV watching TV together with even the family cat perched on Mourad’s father’s lap. It is probably my biggest adjustment so far to this culture in learning how to “shake off” my habit of being alone in doing everything. I must say that I hardly doubt there is any notice of the word “depression” in a culture to which you are encircled by those who love you nearly all of the time.

My first night was spent sleeping in the same room as Mourad but with two twin beds. I felt a bit like I was in grade school with the parents and sisters always across the way from us watching TV. There is a beautiful window next to my bed that exposes the kitchen terrace area and dozens of pigeons coo at all hours of the day or night from my view. When you look outside the window, you see dust colored reticular shapes overlapping each other that showcases the kitchen windows of all of the neighboring apartments. I wake daily to the sounds of the family members taking their breakfast, their tea, their breads and prayers. Mourad prays five times a day but it is something he does alone as I have not witnessed any other family members praying ever. There is a regular sounding off of prayers throughout all cities in Algeria that I hear loudly through the microphones in the city. I do not notice anyone getting up from their lives in order to pray. I think religion is something that people wear in their clothing, the women and their scarves over their heads or the uniformed leather jackets and Levi jeans of the men here. Which brings me to share that the affection between people here goes beyond the French pleasantries of kissing each other on both cheeks but how the men here greet each other with slaps on the backs and occasionally even a manly type of hug. Affection of this sort may be with your local butcher or a friend from the Internet café. Here, the expression ‘friend’ can apply to anyone you have ever come across and know by first name.

On the second day of my time here, Mourad took me to what is considered an upscale SALON DU THE. Both the outside and interior resembled a posh, white castle with numerous red velvet lounges, sofas and chairs over three floors with a DJ booth and a VIP table. A flat screened TV was perched above everyone and was dubbing OPRAH’s show. The host stand held photos of New York City’s Stature of Liberty, yellow NYC cabs and other highlights from other major international cities. We walked up a rounding staircase to the third level. There were nothing but groups of huddled Muslim couples making out in every table. Even though the women were conservatively dressed, they could literally let their hair down and express their sensuality through their colorful high heels or lipstick shade peeking out from underneath their outfits. Even as open minded as I consider myself to be regarding sexuality, I felt a bit uncomfortable about this club version of “BED” as where to pass my second day with Mourad. We descended to the second floor and ordered coffees and burgers. It’s hard to not notice that the entire place was staring at me, or us, and I wasn't quite sure if it was because I was white or we are suddenly an inter-racial couple. Mourad explained to me that they are simply infatuated with all things American and that they were probably just curious to know what I am like. Mourad and I speak in French so sometimes when people discover that I am American, and not French, that is when their faces light up and smile more! You see, the Algerians are not too keen on the French after the civil war and I have yet to even notice one French person here.

We then left the SALON DU THE and headed to Mourad’s aunt’s house nearby. His aunt made the customary tea and coffee with chocolate croissants as the two daughters of his aunt, age 13 and 10, impressed me with their capable knowledge of English and paintings. From there, we visited another relative’s house where there was Mourad’s grandmother waiting us. In the front of the house were all of Mourad’s uncles, cousins and father speaking. Mourad introduced me and then continued to lead me towards the back of the house where all of the women, various aunts, cousins and children waited. I felt a bit like I was on display here in front of so many people, but there were so sweet to me, bringing me yet more coffee, tea and biscuits. So much for kicking the coffee habit in America!

When departing his relatives house, Mourad had me leave with his family as there was not enough room for his entire family in the car. After our five hour airport ride from Algiers to Oran, a comfort ability has already been established regarding car conversation and when everyone may just be too tired to talk at all. I am amazed at how quickly I have felt comfortable with Mourad’s family; I didn't expect that I would ever get accustomed to having a family member be in every room I’d ever be in this house. Personal space is hard to come by but I've yet to feel uncomfortable by it. We all time out our individual shower times, and I’m even sharing facial masks with Mourad’s 19 year old brother!

Mornings have been a bit more difficult for me in this regard. I am someone who relishes her quiet mornings of yoga, meditation, my morning dog walk and Eastern music. I have a regimented morning of solitude that has been difficult to shake while here. Most mornings, Mourad is off to school already when I wake and so I am left alone to rise and greet his entire family, pajamas and all, and take my coffee at the kitchen table with the entire family. I enjoy the coffee but cannot shake off my guilt at re-introducing all white baguettes, pure butter and chocolate croissants to my breakfast routine. I've upped by Metformin intake by double. I leave the table and usually am scrambling to shower in some fashion without needing to use three separate rooms: a separate toilet, a shower room, and then Mourad’s parents bedroom to which the only socket and mirror are to which I can properly blow dry my hair. It makes me feel like a bit of a primadonna to turn my normally 45 minute get-ready routine into a nearly 90 minute routine because I must search throughout suitcases or plastic bags to locate nearly anything I need specifically. It has turned out to be my most trying moments while here in Algeria: to quickly get ready without ten relatives either walking into the room I am in, or distracting me from getting ready.

I must admit that I did not properly pack for this particular month long stay. Having been living from a suitcase since August, or needing to search through various trash bags in my storage unit for something to wear, I felt unprepared to know exactly what or how to dress for Algeria. I brought a variety of longer sundresses, boots, jeans and blazers. I wish I had kept it simple and simply brought flip flops as I once used to wear only in my twenties because wearing fancy sandals or Western boots is certainly not practical for a dusty town of broken side streets and unpaved roads.

I am told by Mourad and his family that I can dress any way I wish. Trouble is that if I ever dared to wear even half the outfits I do in the United States, I’d either be gawked at from every person or be arrested on the spot! I was brought to a local flea market here that carried many vendors selling local clothing, beauty products, snacks and carpets. I had a hard time shopping Algerian style as you are literally shoulder to shoulder, step by step, with the entire world of shoppers. I don’t shop well in this sort of setting. It was here that Mourad probably first glimpsed my “unpleasant side” as I simply hate crowded places or attempting to shop neck and neck for anything. We did manage to speak to a fabric vendor who’s fabrics I enjoyed immensely to potentially launch our first line from. From what I can tell so far, no clothing, shoe or food vendor seems to have export experience or any knowledge of how they could be selling their goods to a worldwide audience quite easily with just help of the Internet. Their banking system has not modernized enough to include debit banking and therefore most Algerians do not carry a credit or debit card and therefore could not even gain access to using Paypal. I don’t understand why their government has not done things like this but it appears that their economy is working from a local system not much different looking than 100 years ago. And despite India still being a localized business merchant system, they are experienced enough to know how to export their goods or even sell them to the world online.

Some days have passed since I last was able to write…..I find it difficult to think or write with constant noise around me. There is always someone in every room of the house. Mourad’s teenage brother, Mohammed, is in the stage of playing rap music from the computer or walking around in every room playing music from his cell phone. Even from the bathroom! Mourad and I tease him constantly because he is always doing something hysterically funny. Obsessed and cursed by teenage acne, he walks around constantly primping in the bathroom or sleeping in clay facial masks! He’s also trying to sell the family car in order to buy a new Volkswagen so he spends a lot of time cleaning it or discussing the matter with his parents. He even asked to borrow my camera yesterday to post ads on the Internet, thanks to my advice!

The only issues that are a bit annoying to me is how to get any bathroom time myself! Ever since childhood, I have had the bizarre fear of toilets. Here in their home, the room for the toilet and the shower and sink area are separate. There is a faucet and hose next to the toilet to wash yourself in place of toilet paper. I was already aware of this system from India although in my hotels I stayed in, I never really had to worry about a lack of toilet paper or the ability to take a hot bath when I wanted. Thank god I brought those antibacterial wipes from Target because in some moments that the family ran out of toilet paper, I was still prepared with my Virgo-ready “bag of necessities!”

There is also the question of the shower. I thought I would impress everyone with my Whole Foods bought eco-friendly shower head that apparently removes all impurities from the water. I had to laugh at myself when I attempted to use the detachable shower head to which was old and rust ridden which explains why there is a preference to use a Mediterranean soaking dish in multiple tile colors with a small cup. You full the basin fully and use the cup to wash your entire body. I no longer need to include squats or lunges in my exercise routine because I spend my entire bathing time in a squat position racing to pour enough hot water over my entire body to keep warm!

And if I didn’t feel prima donna enough, I must blow-dry my hair in Mourad’s parents room where the only mirror and electrical plug in the house exists! Thank God I bought a flat iron in Italy that works in the electrical sockets in Algeria. I race from toilet room to bath basin room to Mourad’s parents room back to my bedroom to simply get ready every day. Did I mention I tend to get ready nude and dress after I blow-dry my hair to avoid getting sweaty in clothes? Ahhhh I have learned the art of racing against my own normal routine clock in getting ready to lessen the embarrassment of how many rooms or people I must pass in order to simply get ready every day!

My love, Mourad, is wonderful at carrying my carry on bag from room to room to ensure I can get ready comfortably. He bodyguards the door I am in to ensure no noisy relatives “accidentally” walk in while I am getting ready!

The other day, we went to the city museum here in Oran. It was a normal looking museum and carried paintings, artifacts, bones and war stories. My usual diabetic self cringed when needing to use a rest room and coming across yet another Turkish bathroom! We left early but not without my having discovered an Algerian painter I truly adore named simply BAYA.

There are times when Mourad and I explore the city on our own but the weather changes often here from being cold and rainy and extremely windy to sunny and warm. It is certainly warmer than our traditional winters but still you need a jacket in February. Yesterday while stopping for kabobs and pizza in town, I exited the car wearing a Fedora and the wind was so strong that as soon as I exited the car, in front of an entire row of street observers, my fedora hat blew in the wind far away from me down the street, plopping from one mud bath to the next and as soon as it landed across the street, we witnessed a man walking who reached down and placed the hat on his head, despite the hat’s new dirtier appearance, and Mohammed had to race quickly to stop the man and demand that I get it back!

Chasing hats creates an appetite so Mourad’s mother, Mohammed and I stopped at a kabob shop and ordered the yummiest kabob sandwich I have ever tasted in my life. It was a pita pocket jammed full of the yummiest chicken kabob slices, French fries and some kind of sauce and tomatoes. I fear I have lost an entire two month’s of two hour workouts to shape up prior to meeting Mourad in the course of only a week of eating in Algeria. Everyone here eats white bread baguettes, chocolate croissants, cola drinks, couscous, pasta, and sugary biscuits almost all day long. Tea time with the family is every day around 5pm which encompasses even more croissants, bread and chocolates! Mourad took me to his gym, an all Male revue practically of beefy Algerian men passing many hours per day in order to simply have someplace to go. I sat in a corner desk writing while my Beloved worked out but he interrupted me nearly every five minutes to give me a kiss in front of his staring co-exercisers. Every time a guy reached behind me for his jacket to head out, Mourad was there checking on me to make sure I was ok. He is very protective and loving in that way. I notice that the Arab man is not only passionate and affectionate but he WANTS to be NEEDED or wanted and is proud to “take care of his woman.” Such a drastic difference to the American counterparts today! LOL.

Today we ended going for a long family drive throughout the city and mountains of Oran. Oran is truly a very large city and it is different than most cities I have visited in that it carries not only a sea coastline but the largest mountain terrain overlooking a Spanish-port designed city. It has a countryside that mingles with seaside vacation towns. The ocean follows you everywhere and its shades of emerald, jade and turquoise waters is truly breathtaking when matched with whitewashed rooftops, diamond carved doors and street markets. Algeria is not that much different than Italy and Greece in that it shares the same coastal offerings but perhaps for a fraction of the price you pay to head to Europe.

We stopped at the beautiful Saint Maria, a Spanish gift in the 1800’s combining a mosque and a chapel of the Virgin Mary overlooking the city or Oran. There were winding roads going around and around towards the top of the mountain that held the sites overlooking this large city. At every turn, you could see the sea still following you. I would notice traditional clothed families with their heads covered mingled with only farm animals or other drivers. I appear to be the only white person here in Algeria but Mourad’s family swears that during their summertime, the Europeans tourists descend upon Oran.

We took many beautiful photos today. When we returned back to his home, his mother said that the same cousins I met the other day, the young girls, wanted to see me again and so they planned to come by tonight and stay over. The two of them were so adorable upon showing up as they rushed in to hug me, kiss me and have nearly not left my side since! There is a “cousin” family friend that Mourad is not too fond of as well who stopped by as well. I met him briefly my first night here but he ended up stealing Mourad’s cell phone charger. Mourad has warned me against this kind of guy: the kind who marries but takes on other girlfriends, someone who you can never trust with your belongings or your woman and who constantly puts down anything you think is interesting. I trust completely Mourad’s opinion of things as I think Mourad’s character is unlike any man I have ever known.

I had a button break off from my pajamas and Mourad broke out a sewing kit and mended the button back for me. I mean how much more romantic can you get than that! I notice that Mourad is seriously multi-talented. He draws and paints, designs his own clothes, is very computer savvy, dedicated and regimented in both his fitness and prayer routines, and is able to somehow sneak away time to study for his French grad courses during his final exams now, usually when I am learning how to cook couscous with his mother or sneak away a few minutes to check my emails or write. We are both Virgos, born only days apart astrologically, so we are alike in that we are social creatures who also enjoy our personal space, order and alone time. He and I both rush to wake early in the morning and make the bed! Luckily we are comfortable in sharing our alone time even from the same room. I can honestly say that there has not arrived even one minute to which I am annoyed by him, or don’t want him around me. On the contrary, we both are already dreading the day I must return back to the USA to work a bit more before returning to Algeria to await his American visa.

In terms of physical compatibility, there is nothing lacking there. We both joke that if we had to create an opening scene of a movie about our Love story, it would be a scene where Mourad is praying on the floor to GOD for his ideal woman to arrive and my father would be cracking jokes with GOD in heaven trying to “set me up with my dream man!” I honestly believe that my father has something to do with having found my man. I think every single thing I’d create on a “checklist of sorts” Mourad has but then there are eerily similar things regarding his family and mine that I have to wonder what are the chances? Even Mourad’s father, Kahil, carries the same Leo-like charisma, self centeredness and humor that my father did.

I know that many of my friends or family will think our story’s beginning as strangely unknowing. That’s why it can only be explained by a Spiritual source, a higher power that is not of our understanding or control. I don’t think I believed in GOD more than recently. Looking at the clues of my past, the moments in France, the Moroccan ex who introduced me to the singer Cheb Khaled,(who is originally from Oran) the Algerian ex boyfriend who got me to Paris, the fact that a guy in Italy invited me to “stop by” Tunisia on my way to India which then led to a Tunisian revolution that made it impossible for me to head to Tunisia but then made me take seriously the Algerian boxer who was always there in the background of my life telling me over and over, “You see Farrah. We are suppose to know each other. You are meant to come meet me here in my city of Oran, Algeria. Come to me and I promise you, you will have my heart and my entire life.” When he told this to me a year ago, I used to laugh via text and respond with a “Yeahhhhh, sure buddy. Me in Algeria. “ But I gotta tell you, after a series of bizarre twists and turns in my year long plan, I've gotta admit that landing here in Algeria and meeting my future husband was not only a pleasant surprise but one that seems to be destined out of even my own control or knowing. Love and bliss is not just something in your dreams but something in your spirit that simply needs to be nudged awake from your life of forgetfulness.

My Big Fat Algerian Wedding

February 27, 2011

I hadn’t wore red nail polish since I was 17 years old. I remember wearing only red during my teenage years, those fragile years before I left for France, before I became a woman who traveled, a time where I was satisfied stopping on the side of the road to pick tigerlillies in upstate NY with my at-the-time American boyfriend. Life hadn’t happened yet. Love was something you created in your teenage bedroom back then. You plastered photos of dreamy boys, and worried more about your hair than your future and remembered every single moment of dizzying infatuation. When the fad years of multi-colored nail polish colors flashed versions of colors of glitter, Vamps and jelly bean assortments, I broke off my relationship with Red. Even when the Vietnamese ladies would flash it in front of me at their nail joints, I would always respond politely back with a “no, thanks” as red always reminded me of a lost youth in the same way you hear a certain song that places you right back to a memory you almost had forgotten.

So having watched for over an hour Mourad’s sister, Apima, and her lovely friend Hakima, paint my nails a bright, cherry red to prepare my hands for their own transformation of henna and gold nail polish and a plethora of gold rings pressed tightly on every finger, I had been forced to think back to my teenage years of love and how full circle I had gone in simply wearing red again at my Algerian wedding ceremony. An official wedding it is not; at least not by American standards to which we’ve applied for Mourad to have the fiancé visa in order to expedite his arrival to the US with me. So we decided to do a small “fiancé ceremony” that resembles an Algerian wedding but is not registered with the country so as to “alert” my government’s thirst for earning more tax dollars on our special day. I would quickly figure out that despite my request for a small, private ceremony at the house, the theatrical side of an Algerian wedding was certainly not lacking.

It began the night before with the arrival of many relatives. There was Mourad’s younger cousins, all female and mature beyond their pubescent years. They arrived wearing the long, gold chained necklaces and oversized stone rings I had given them the visit before. They join Ramzy in creating a sort of SWAT team like circle around me no matter where I go. They want my full attention and in their adorable allegiance to me, I give it to them. Then there were Mourad’s aunts who had driven to Oran from Algiers or the aunt from Paris in her dashing rhinestone top that signaled her fashion suavity from her three sisters. Mourad’s mother is one of four daughters like my own and so in meeting her sisters, I was able to think of my own. There were mothers and cousins and neighbors and family friends who rang the door bell all night long wishing Mourad and I a happy and long marriage.

I was still adjusting to how many relatives were here and intending to sleep here nonetheless too! Mourad’s family had pulled out Moroccan like mattresses that were multi-colored and diamond patterned that were makeshift beds encircling the entire living room. These makeshift floor beds would later serve as the seating for the wedding guests who came. That left the entire center of the living room open for the various ceremony activities including the belly dancer show and my dance!

Mourad and I felt like celebrities in that we are the only ones who enjoy the privilege of having our own room, even if it means we jokingly argue about which one of us are going to get stuck sleeping in “the crack” of the twin beds combined. That doesn’t mean though that we were ever alone in the room for too long as there are relatives dropping off coats on our bed, children fumbling through my bags of stashed treats(as hard as I tried to buy my own separate groceries of infused proteins to improve my diet, I quickly learned than in an Arab family, there is no this or that about food. Someone will find it and eat it.) Our bedroom would later become “The Bride’s Room” where I spent much of my wedding day hidden in the bedroom with Apima and Hakima as they dumped their makeup bags and suitcases containing my many wedding costumes I would later wear.

The day of my wedding, I enjoyed the privilege of having the shower room to myself. Or so I thought. As I was squatting to wash myself with the warm water, someone pushed the door open and proceeded to use the bathroom sink. I heard Mourad’s mother save me and demand her husband give me my space. (Or something like this in Arabic I’m assuming!) The children were constantly knocking at my door or trying to talk to me. The one sound I would grow to get annoyed by day’s end would be that of a door knocking! I had to dye my hair a deeper black that same morning so my fiancé and I hung out in our room together with me having my head full of dye. I thought to myself that basically if a man can see me like this on our wedding day, and we can co-habituate with 100 relatives without getting on each other’s nerves somehow, we should definitely be married! I was at the same time dying my hair as one cousin after another came into my room asking me to do her hair. All of these Algerian women and girls have the thickest hair and I was left to wonder what in the world I was going to do with my own fine, limp hair the day of my wedding. Thank God Hakima showed up later that morning to save me.

Hakima is a younger version of the French singer Edith Piaf. She has shared with me during our afternoon tea time of her traumatic youth in caring for two aging, sick parents. She was there to take care of me that day. I had a sneak preview of how well her and Apima were going to be on my wedding day when the day before, they drove me to the Central downtown market area, and searched for my wedding favors, and various jewelry pieces required for the ceremony. They were covered from head to toe, much like the entire world of women here, and there I was nudged between the two of them protectively, sticking out like a sore thumb in my Western dress and flip flops. There is no words to express how nearly everything I had intended to wear here in Algeria doesn’t seem appropriate. The market place was a menagerie of activity: a colorful world of spices, fruits, jewelry, exotic Moroccan dresses, cheshnut stands and a billion eyeballs.

Apima and Hakima were my guides in every stage of the wedding. I started out by being given a kind 30 minutes of “alone time” in my room without too many knocks on my door. I was told that everyone was eating, women and men in separate rooms. I wasn’t being offered anything to eat during this time which I found a bit strange. Outside I could hear everyone talking, laughing and playing music. I decided to play with my Iphone. Then I thought it might be nice to pray to GOD a little. It started out with something like, “God. You’ve got me wearing red nail polish here…….” I was trying my best to not have this day really resemble anything too emotional so as to remind me that my entire family was not with me. If I thought too hard on how not a single sister has even thought to even email or call me during this most important time in my life, I’d might just have had a breakdown then. Then of course to have imagined my father and mother missing it all. So you see, this “version” of a wedding so strange and foreign to anything I could have imagined for myself seemed just fine with me to avoid really getting too upset by anything.

When Hakima entered the room ready to “undo” my own makeup I had done that morning, I was a bit worried. But in deciding to “follow the Algerian tradition” and “see the adventure awaiting me” I let her do as she pleased. At the end, I resembled a younger version of Tammy Faye. Blue eye shadow to the brow. Cherry red lips. The Oranais bride. I barely recognized myself. I hated looking at a mirror ever because I could see in my face all of the water retention going on from weeks of breads, croissants, coffees, sugars and little exercise. Apima would enter the room periodically with a few of the older, female cousins to check in on me. They wore black dresses that were more modern in look and feel and I silently envied them. They let down their hair to reveal long, cascading curls that we, Americans, pay thousands to covet through extensions. I was sitting there in blue eye shadow.

The first of my gowns was to “test my ability to be balanced and demure” by proving I could hold a headpiece on my head without it falling and walk straight in heels with a billion pearls covering your chest. I thought to myself that of this was these people’s idea of a tough test, I’d pass it with flying colors. Carrying a row of pearls is no toughie here with this American princess. Apparently while I was getting helped into this elaborate gold and pearls dress, my fiancé was in the next room with his Muslim priest going over the Muslim prayers and questions typical to Muslim culture. I had no idea of this scene until later that night when Mourad shared it with me. The priest at one point had turned to Mourad to ask him if he had been true in not touching me before the marriage. Mourad stated that a million thoughts ran across his mind at that moment and seeing that he is the only person in his family that does pray five times daily, I was unsure myself at this point of the story as to what exactly his response was going to be! Mourad said that at that moment, his father kicked his foot under the table to signal him to answer “No..” to appease the Iman. It was then that Mourad knew that his father knew that he was not as “all practicing” as his Muslim brotherhood!

Upon the final words of the Iman and Mourad, the women started to howl “lalalalalalala” in loud, hyena-like fashion outside of my door. This was my big reveal to the entire marriage party and my first time seeing everyone. I was trying to walk as balanced as possible all the way towards the end of the room with a huge crown on my head and 50 lbs of pearls across my chest. As I passed each multi-colored veiled woman sitting crouched in corners around the living room, I smiled out of nervousness. All I kept thinking is “What are THEY thinking of an American woman dressed like this marrying one of their own?” It was the first time I was seeing Mourad all day. He was dressed in regular suit attire and appeared much more relaxed than I was at that time. I had to laugh somewhat to myself when I saw him as I felt I resembled nothing of myself in front of him. The first thing he said when he saw me is “You look beautiful.” Mourad held my hands the entire time and an older woman dressed in white came to me to place henna and a wedding pillow tied to the center of my right hand. Many people were circling me taking photos and videos with their cell phones. There was Egyptian sounding music playing on a boom box stereo loudly next to me. I was being asked to stand up at the end to slowly walk from woman to woman smiling and giving cheek kisses as each one of them was introduced to me. I received slews of “Vous etes belles” (You are beautiful) or versions in Arabic that were translated to me.

After introductions, I was led back to my bedroom. There was still two dress changes to go. I had no real say over my dress choices, colors or sizing. I was wearing Apima’s wedding attire from only seven months ago. I thought here is the backlash revenge my sisters would have loved for years of my always getting the new clothes versus the hand-me-downs as a middle child. I wasn’t too keen on the next black and white skirt and jacket combo. There were shoulder pads in this suit jacket. I was starting to see an 80’S theme here to my entire wedding attire. I was getting my hair pulled into a tight chignon with a princess-like crown. More red lipstick. More blue eye shadow. The only thing I recognized on me was my CHANEL perfume, CHANCE. How fitting for this tour-de-force my life has taken me now towards Algeria?

The second round in front of guests was when Mourad was to present me my ring. I wasn’t really ever asked what kind of ring I wanted although I had posed a few photos to Mourad regarding my style of ring. I’m not a big jewelry wearer so if I was to actually be wearing a ring, I wanted something comfortable. My ring is simple and small, although it was originally too big for this party so I wasn’t even able to wear it throughout the rest of the day. We were able to dance at this part, which I was happy to do if only to move around a bit. Apparently I impressed everyone with my ability to dance Arabic style and thanked my years listening to Natacha Atlas to imagine what she would have danced like at an Algerian wedding if ever she had the opportunity! There is a few videos of me dancing that were casually taken by a family friend. Once again, I hated looking at any of my photos or the videos because I looked like an overfed Tammy Faye Baker.

I was then led back to the back bedroom for yet another costume change. I was a bit hot wearing this black velour suit and dancing so I was eager to change. Luckily the last dress was my favorite, a Moroccan style gown that was lighter in weight and easier to move around in. The deep purple color fitted me. The makeup in this shade of dress seemed way off to me. I asked how long I had to wear this for? I was eager to just rush back to my bedroom and put on something comfortable to me! I was told that all I had to do was “make a showing of sorts” for the elderly folks. I didn’t mind wearing this dress because it was much more comfortable than the others and I think that it showed in my face that I was happier in this round of photos. People were starting to leave at this point so Mourad and I had more room and time to dance. Hakima was able to finally relax knowing that her role as my wedding aide was coming to a close. After about 30 minutes, I was told that if I wanted to change, I could. I asked if it was alright to take off all of my makeup! I had an urge to shower and rinse off my hair, face and sweat. I was told it was ok. So for the second time of the day, I was in the bath room attempting to wash myself with a cup and a basin. Again, a few people accidentally walked in on me. Only this time, I wasn’t as happy about it.

You see during this entire time, I had my period. Being cursed double with being a diabetic eating too many sweets for my own good as well as having my period, I was in need of using a rest room during nearly every costume change and required someone to assist me in just pulling me pants down to pee with so much on me. So when I was in the bath room alone finally, I relished being able to sit there nude with nothing to worry about. And here I was unable to go from the shower room to my bedroom in private to change without a relative near me. Hakima and Apima had turned our bedroom into an unrecognizable den to which even finding a place on the bed to sit and blow-dry my hair with was a feat. I was frustrated and irritated by this point. My husband no where to be found. I was naked, cold, hungry and bored. I was crying and getting upset. Mourad heard me and entered the room. Not ten seconds later, so did Hakima, Apima and a few of the younger cousins. I was sitting there naked with a towel only and I just sort of lost it speaking in English that this was crazy. Crazy that I couldn’t have even a moment of privacy here.

Mourad shooed everyone away so I could blow-dry my hair. I was unable to locate anything to put on except a full length black cotton T shirt dress and black leather motorcycle jacket and black flip flops. No makeup. Hair down tucked behind my ears. The black angel emerged to the relatives in her original form. I craved wine at that moment. This was a wedding ceremony to which no alcohol was served. I asked Mourad when we were going to leave for our Honeymoon Suite on the beach that I was promised every night while we slept on makeshift boxes that served as beds. Never before have I had back problems but now I walk like an old lady hunched over at age 70. I thought I would have a breakdown if Mourad did not get me out of that house alone with him soon. He suggested we go outside for a walk. We basically got into his parents car. He explained to me that the hotel was not something he could afford or his parents at that time. I wanted to die. I cried for about 20 minutes. I just witnessed one of the largest wedding parties and food offerings in a home and not a single thought went into whether or not the bride might like some privacy with her husband the night of their wedding???

You might read at this point that no one in the right mind would continue on through all of this chaos. Then you’d have to see my beloved Mourad to understand WHY I put up with all of this. He is a sensitive type, perhaps still untainted by life’s seriousness yet as he has been shielded by living with his entire family through these past 27 years of his life. He never stops telling me how beautiful I am, or how much he loves me, or how he wishes this could have all been different right now. He tells me this over and over even when I am mad, even when I say things that make his life seemed like a savage madhouse, even when I feel my ugliest or want to cry heaped into a pile on our bed frustrated that my own financial situation could not have prevented all of this and allowed us our alone time. I don’t know if I am crying for myself or for the fact that I feel guilty for the ability to know and feel the difference in our two lives. That the poverty of his country is not as pretty as the poverty of India’s. That I cannot help being somewhat spoiled by my American life and he cannot apologize for not knowing the difference to which I am accustomed to. He says to me often, “Farrah, I do not know what it is you speak of….” He doesn’t understand our American luxury of individual space, privacy and luxuries. I feel guilty inside for what I am about to do which is to bring him to my world and expose him to the entire other way of life to which he missed out on for 27 years. That we have automatic toilet flushing, hand sanitizers on cue and dryers that blow your hands dry. That our supermarkets make you feel like you’ve died and gone to heaven. That I drive everywhere. That I drink wheatgrass shots as a luxurious thing to do for my body. Mourad’s mother has only seen a Dr to give birth.

He looks at me in the car that night telling me that this was the happiest day of his life and that now his entire world knows the love he has for me. And I’m crying like a blubbering mess because despite having experienced all of these luxuries I took so for granted, I still lacked up until this point the most luxurious thing of all: true love.

There are a few moments of true love that burn in my heart as proof that Mourad loves me. The first was when I broke a button off my pajamas and how he broke out a sewing kit there in front of me and sewed it back on. Or the time I had no choice but to flush my tampons down the toilet because there are no garbage cans in either the toilet room or the bathing room. The flush did not work. Mourad was the tampon retriever. Then there was the day that I craved being able to sit outside in the warm sunshine of an outdoors Algerian café and drink a strong coffee. The majority of cafes in Algeria are male inhabited but on the day I craved sitting outside to people watch, Mourad took me to a popular café and told me to pick out a table. He ordered us mint tea and coffee and a gentleman served us. When the waiter learned that I was American, he returned to serve us complimentary water and croissants saying “Welcome to Algeria.” There were men coming and going and staring over at our table in the corner, and Mourad was kissing my face and holding my hands proudly the entire time.

Then there was the night that Mourad and I tried to sneak away a few private moments outside sitting on the front stoop talking and kissing. A few minutes later, a menacing looking man approached Mourad and asked him to step aside. Mourad quickly pounced up and defensively responded back in Arabic to the guy. Another three men encircled Mourad at this moment. I had no idea what to think as I couldn’t understand what they were saying. It appeared almost like a gang fight was about to happen and I seriously debated during those few seconds as to whether or not it would have been a good idea if a female intervened if need be and they started to fight. Luckily the battle ended quickly and as Mourad led me back into the house he explained that these men were defending the honor of their aging father who was staring at us from outside on the top floor of an apartment building. The father couldn’t tell I was foreign or whether or not we were married. When Mourad explained to the young men that “We were getting married tomorrow and what were they going to do about it and that I was American who was witnessing Arab dogs fighting.” The men apologized to Mourad who l still saw not backing down, shoulder to shoulder, with the 4 men who were surrounding Mourad. I was impressed that Mourad was not at all scared to defend our love!

There are smaller moments that pass every day such as Mourad knowing how I like my coffee, or the fact that I like being left alone in the morning when getting ready, or that I get the better pillow on the bed when sleeping, or he lets me pick out which video I want to rent to watch later on, or he gives me the food off his plate that he knows I like more, or that he’ll eat the things I didn’t like as much so as to not offend his mother. And whenever I am upset or frustrated, and revert back into speaking English, he shuts the door so we can be alone and he immediately starts out every sentence with, “Je t’aime, Nebrik, I love youuuuuu.” And it immediately diffuses any ability of me to stay mad or upset because the way his accent curls the uuuuuu in I love you is so adorable, you can’t HELP but smile as well. It doesn’t hurt either that he is by far the most handsome man I could imagine laying next to every day.

It is really for the smaller moments during my stay here in Algeria that allowed me to get through the chaotic and theatrical unknown show of my wedding day, although everyone seems to call it a small “fiancé party” and stating whether its possible we do a normal sized wedding party, inviting my entire family, later on. I smile politely back stating surely, but only after 6 months of pure alone time with my beautiful husband.