Der Parasit II

Tu' es doch!
Sprich mit mir
ich brauch' dich noch
du lebensgebendes Elixier
Gefährte,
Ohne dich
bin ich
doch
nur flüssig Fleisch und Härte.

NMP

Geschichte zum Gedicht: Ein paar verrückte Sprachwissenschaftler haben die Sprache als Parasit beschrieben, der im Gehirn lebt, relativ autonom wirken kann, und Bedeutungen reproduziert. Einer beschrieb den Sprachorganismus stattdessen als Symbiot, der im Einklang mit dem menschlichen Gehirn auftritt. Ich habe mich mit ihren verrückten Theorien befasst und die Idee der Sprache als quasi eigenen Organismus erforscht. Was ist der menschliche Organismus ohne Sprache? Was ist Sprache überhaupt? Und wie existiert sie im und um den Menschen? Hat Sprache ein eigenes Leben? Inwiefern verhält sie sich unabhängig von den Menschen die sie reproduzieren? Gibt es Sprache ohne Denken, Sprechen, Schreiben und so weiter?

Chichi

Teeth, don't leave!
Spite the white liquid
from my bosom's sleeve
Teeth, please stay!
Spite the white Angel
me arms doth sway

I'm a slave to her lips
as she grips to my heart
and to my twisted hips
can no wits will apart
a mother's wild love
for her child or her art

Pilgrim Soul

Will you be there
when I return?
When I'm ready
I'll be back
when it's my turn.
I wonder lover
will your heart
still burn
with the fire
that brought us together

The cave

The kids mostly outside they play
But she must go back into the cave,
sometimes, and stay
And take the children with her
To where the dancing shadows sway
To where the babies lay
To dream about the play by day
Til the darkness goes away

Der Parasit

Organismus: Warum lässt du mich nicht einfach in ruh?
Parasit: Weil ich Teil von dir bin.
O: Aber du verletzt mich nur.
P: Tu ich das?
O: Wer bist du überhaupt?
P: Na, ich.
O: Und wer ist das?
P: Der mit dir spricht.

O: Tu das nicht!
    Wo du bist drückt der Schuh.

Womanhood

A family trip to a place of my childhood and youth  has made me realize that I am coming to terms with womanhood. I am a woman and I am worn. Being a worn woman makes me vulnerable.

Spent so much time of my life trying not to be a woman. Whatever that meant to me then it was not as cool as being a girl or a boy, a man, or perhaps a young woman. But not a woman. I'm not sure what 'woman' meant to me then, but it wasn't desirable. I know what woman means to me now.

woman: sensual sentient creature of creation capable of unconditional love, life and pleasure. daughter of nativity, mother of nurture. mujer. full of faith in life, fluid flow of freedom. woman: like the moon sometimes full, sometimes new. every month an opportunity for creation as fertil energies thrive and drive. then a purge with the possibility for renewal.

I used to feel like every full moon was a fertil egg that bore no consequence. Little did I know! Today I howl at the moon. I embrace my womanhood and the blessed energies my magical body bears. I love being a woman. Once annoyed with my breasts as they bounced around uncomfortably when I ran. If I was a warrior armed with a sword, I would not hesitate in cutting off at least one breast. Breasts get in the way of physical activity...certain physical activity. Now I love their bubbly bounce when I walk. Being a woman is a feeling. Sure, vanity and narcissism may be part of the package and I love to take care of my body and my appearance. I love pretty dresses and sprakly things. I love my mysterious curves, my delicate contours and fine lines, my volumptuous corners and gentle flacidity as it playfully flirts with Earth's gravity.

No man made me a woman. My children did, life itself: a process that has torn me apart and worn me out in many ways. A Mexican physician told me it would take years for my body to recover from childbearing and breastfeeding, from making another body from my own. Sometimes I wonder, will I ever recover? I gave of my body and my body gives at least every month again: life and the possibility for life. My body continues to give though worn. Tales told by my legs, my joints, my everywheres. The second pregnancy was like walking on sword blades daily for months. The body remembers pain. I'm worn though not worn out. When I feel vulnerable I don't like it. Coming to terms with my limitations.

Though being a woman makes me strong with a high tolerancy for pain, tenacity, regeneration and moments of sheer fearlessness amongst other things. But oh how it tears at my body, how it tears at my soul: life! Worn woman that I am.

Watch out for the temper on hard days! Coming home with two hungry and tired kids, both screaming, the dog with its high pitched piercing bark waiting by the door. Patience already stretched to the limit. The three year old refuses to walk up the stairs, I have the big baby girl on one arm, groceries in the other. I leave him and take her upstairs to go back for him after dropping her  and the grocery bags off. Screams and canine screaches echo in the hallway. The downstairs neighbour comes out and starts yelling at my boy to be quiet already. Fumes!

You yellin' at my kid Sir?
You think you the only one who can yell?
Well I can yell right back at you!
Oh you can call me names?
Well I can call you names too!
Sure I am crazy, be scared!
Back away from my son
and scare him never again!

Motherhood.

when in doubt, differentiate

Trying to hold on
wherever she could
she would
woman of nowhere
now she wanted
just to let go

Origin

Isn't it strange to be from a place but you're not. To feel like you grew up there but you didn't. To know it so well and yet have no facts to tell, Only a personal story.

The love poem

She wasn‘t quite sure where it had come from or who had written it. A few simple lines that read:

I love you
if what I do
and who I am
makes you suffer
I suffer
thus making my love for you
a prison of suffering
I want to set free
my love for you
but not in sacrifice
of myself

She thought about the ones she loves. What did that mean “set free my love”? She needed her love very close to her heart and rooted deeply within her soul. Her own suffering was a source of compassion. Only in having suffered herself was she able to understand others’ suffering. Knowing what pain felt like enabled her to recognize it. “A prison of suffering” she read it again. Who would write something like that, she wondered. Her thoughts drifted to a memory years ago when Mother’s health had taken a turn for the worse. She was devastated because she couldn’t help her. Was she not a good enough daughter? Did she not love enough or do enough? Mother had said to her: “I don’t love you because you’re this way or that way, I love you because I do. God doesn’t care about what you think or feel, about what you say or do. He loves you anyway, unconditionally.” And Mother was right. She herself cared about what she said and did, she herself cared about how she lived. Which is why she chose love. God only wanted for her to be happy and would always work in her favor towards that happiness. There was so much to enjoy in earthly delights, pleasures without measure! Was not that why spirits became mortal, regardless of uncomfortable side effects such as vulnerability, pain and suffering? She had read about that in a book she’d received from a stranger on the street. He’d popped out of nowhere as she sat on a sidewalk in a city somewhere watching road life unfold. He'd sat down beside her and started up a smoke, she'd hardly noticed as lost in thought as she was.

“We take the now for granted,” he muttered.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the problem. The now is not for granted.”
She looked at him as he continued to speak.
“First comes the preparation, then comes the molding. The molding takes time. That’s life giving birth to you, all the time.”

Eventually he told her that he’d written a book that no one cared to read and handed her a title-less manuscript before departing. And just like that he was out of her life, were it not for the book. He’d called himself a ‘thought-catcher’. Having had an interesting conversation with him, she was curious about the text. Some ideas contained within it reminded her of Mother’s words. One passage read:

God is a relationship that is always available to you. Reality is good and bad. It’s up to you. Life and Death. You know what? Death will happen on its own, you don’t need to make it happen. Love is a relationship that is always available to you. God is love and will always take care of you and move things in your favor. God, love, happiness exist and you may choose them – as you may choose anger, melancholy, indifference. What if you're blind to all the love amidst the pain? Though at times only glimpses reveal the love that is there, they reveal that unconditional love is available to you. Painful experiences are not punishment. Difficulty could be the result of walking carelessly through life, of being blind, deaf, moribund, numb, or just afraid. Which is fine too, if not very pleasant. It’s all part of life! The pain is important because it is your experience. There is purpose to pain: to remind you that you are alive.

Nothing else matters at all!

I may not know you or I may know you too well...
If I can lose myself then lose myself I will...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qZ_7D22pvTw&feature=related

Poeta

El tiempo parece pasar eternamente lento. Ahora aquí en el avión lo siento. ¡Cómo te extraño, Tita! Me duele tu ausencia, siento añoranza, un vacío. En casa, cerca de tí gozaba de tu espiritu, te sentía más cerca. Ahora que de nuevo me alejo ó paresco alejarme, vuelven las lágrimas, el dolor. Te amo y saber que no volveré a abrazarte, tocarte, besarte, escucharte, olerte y mirarte a los ojos me duele hasta el alma. Cerca de la familia ahí en casa unidos andaba entretenida y distraida. Era casi como pretender que ahí andabas medio cerquita, ni tan lejos, ahí por ahí. Sentí muy presente y tan hermoso tu espiritu: paz, fortaleza, alegría. Lijera tú y feliz al fin libre, reunida con tus seres amados. Ahora soy yo la que se queda atrás para sentir el dolor de haberte perdido. Sólo puedo soñar que ahí estarás cuando se levante mi espiritu. Mientras tanto lo que permanecen son incontables las memorias contigo llenas de amor, calor y sabrosura. Me quedo en el mundo sensual terrenal atada a este cuerpo finito sintiendo el hueco que dejas, sintiendo el dolor que avisa cuanto me haces falta.

Y ahora ¿en donde te encuentro? ¿En donde te veo? El luto regresa en mi soledad y me duele tu partida. Me dejas tanto tanto tanto amor y aún así estoy sufriendo. Gracias por enseñarme donde está mi casa, por demostrarme a donde pertenesco, por llamarme, buscarme y hacerme sentir querida, amada e importante. Gracias por nutrir mis raíces para que cresca con la fortaleza de alguien que sabe donde está en casa. Gracias por amarme, por buscarme cuando andaba perdida. ¿Y ahora sin tí que hago? Llorar y llorar y llorar porque nadie me hace sentir como tú. Simplemente me haces falta, tus atenciones, saber donde estás, donde te puedo encontrar. Pues ahora estás con Dios. ¿Y qué de mis cinco sentidos? Ellos se quedan abandonados. No más besos de clavel, no más tu voz hermosa, tu mirada intensa, tus humores cambiantes, tus abrazos y atenciones terrenales. Te he sentido, he sentido tu espiritu y su generosa presencia, el poder de sus milagros, su presencia divina, su paz, su amor, su fortaleza, su fé y su alegría. ¿Porqué sufro entonces? ¿Porqué duele tanto tanto tanto tu partida? Sólo quiero llorar del dolor que siento. No entiendo bien todo esto. Sé que estás feliz y en paz y yo me quedé atrás y demás tal vez no fue suficiente lo que hice pues te mereces mucho más. O es simplemente egoista mi dolor porque deseo verte, tenerte y sentirte como estaba acostumbrada. Pues será el sereno pero pinche duele tu partida, duele en el alma y en el corazón. Y en mi soledad lo siento ese dolor y quisiera poder refugiarme en tus brazos, en tu cariño y en tu calor.

LH, D.F.-Frankfurt, 4-7-2011