Teach me your slang. Flirt with me with your codes. Make me come with your words. Write your piece of mind on my bare skin. .. … ….. . . ……… More
This is a confession.
This is my confession.
I did not leave my bed today.
This is a confession.
This is my confession.
I did not leave my room today and I walked down the stairs to the basement to pick up some tools to prepare my bed. The stairs were broken so I decided to fix them on my way.
I picked some nails and a hammer. I wore the glove hanging there. Tak-Tak-Tak-Tak… I made a noise through my mouth imitating the hammer’s. I continued going up and down and up and downer..
My house doesn’t have a basement and I live in an apartment…
This is a confession. I always talk myself out of going to the basement, because climbing the stairs is a challenge for my immobile feet. I always go and I am back for now. They say ‘one step at a time’. What should I call this?
Last time you gave me your hand and drowned me in your pages was with Zahra (The Story of Zahra) and now, after three years, I decide to give my mind to you again, for you to steer it to your direction.
I skimmed through your little game, I read all of your names, Suha, Tamr, Suzanne, Nur… I am not afraid to be your women, I am not afraid to become one with them. I am totally ready to dive into your words, to allow your lines to submerge me deeper and deeper, until I suffocate and forget to breathe.. But guess what, my Library knows me the best, she knows all my identities hidden in her shelves and I know that she will pull me out from you and dip me into another kind of you and I will equally enjoy every bit of it.
And if your women and I make it to the lands, I will allow you to scribble an abstract on how we made it to safe havens having passed through your flames…
It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.
Eventually, on her last breath, she solidifies.
featured image credits to: http://tenka.seiha.org/images3/k6/6.jpg
She gave it one last look. Walked down the corridor to the door while Brushing the dust on the shelves with her fingers. Although it burned her from inside, she couldn’t stop to look behind her shoulder, because she knew the rule; she would turn into a pillar of salt. The challenge was to step out of the door with a smile on her face and sprinkle of love in her soul.
She didn’t look back, nevertheless she went into the labyrinth of the rooms. She went into one room which led to the garden, the garden led to the kitchen, the kitchen led to the dining room, the dining room led to the balcony, the balcony led to the bedroom… She was running from one door to the other, forward always, but never in progress. She found herself at point A. Where it all began.
These doors trap.
Finally, exhausted, she took the paint, colored the door with bright white, drew a window instead, unlocked the window with her pen and threw herself out.
I cross the curtain to sit on the parquet floor putting the soles of my feet together and holding them in my palms. I start moving my knees up and down to be part of the individual warming ups taking place on the floor. I look around and enjoy watching my shadow enlarged on the opposite wall, where photos of dancers cut from black and white newspapers are plastered. My shadow tangles with other peoples’ shadows once one of the choreographers comes forward and tells us to walk around the dance floor in order to become acquainted with the space.
Guest author Tamar Shirinian is a Postdoctoral Teaching Fellow in the Sociology and Anthropology Department at Millsaps College
This month, major cities throughout the U.S. will hold annual gay pride events: parades followed by parties throughout the night and weekend. These kinds of celebrations – for rights (to marriage, for example) and especially for LGBT visibility – make up domestic claims to freedom. According to these rhetorics, by providing visible space and time for gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people to take pride in their worlds, the U.S. is on the proper path toward civilizational progress. As such, gay pride, its ideological and cultural attachments to a certain kind of good life, should be contextualized within geopolitics.
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