Bird As Fish

Blue sky just tapered on the sides by the green leaves of the trees, looking up from a dirtish road, moving along. Perhaps a field filled with golden rod. Golden travels. Where I want to be, gone. So unincumbered. Not bound. Silk binds too, perhaps you didn't know.

Soon, perhaps very soon, out on momumental parole. Stretch my legs. New born. And gone. Your silk binds me. Perhaps you didn't know. Swaddled fetus. Atrophy. Young legs long, folded away.

Lay under stars of silver with my head to the side, eyes half closed. Kisses to sleep with cold nose resting on the ground. Alone. Freedom kisses.

Maps, and maps too. Mustn't lose my way, now that I am out. Loose my way. Follow my way to the stars and back, and very much to that meadow. That place in my heart, that place that all my pictures depict. That one place where I shall find peace. Find my way.

Your silk binds me together. But my dismembered parts have remembered where they belong, and they heal and itch. Please let me go.

Mmm, to be a child again, if only I could be a child again. I can just picture it. I can picture that meadow. Daylight awaits me. Daylight and dancing. What if you almost heard a laugh? But what happens there shall be mine and mine alone. Curtains falling. Falling.

I shall return to you. Altered. Found my heaven, my Mecca, my God. It is there I shall meet Him and I shall return glowing.

And I shan't need your silk any more.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Shall I introduce myself? Shall I tell you who I am? Read my blog, and you will know more about me than anything I could ever tell you. To tell you the truth, I don't know who I am.

Who are you? I must know, before I can tell you about myself. How shall I change things, everything that is perfectly true to make up one complete picture, when really I am a collage of many different things. One thing may be true one day, and the opposite as equally true the next. I am quiet in my silence but boisterous in my glee. But I would consider myself neither a quiet person, nor a loud one. Maybe more silent then quiet, but here you are, reading the secrets of my life. Which I am telling you quite boldly.

I am insanely logical, strict, abrupt, in my artistic, creative, flowing way. I hate mess, but love clutter. I am passive-agressive.

To each his own - I am different to everybody. To Giraf, I am bold, flirtatious, I'll-woo-you-with-my-charm, I'll-draw-you-with-my-eyes. To Marie, I am serious, honest, laugh-lazily-sitting-back-in-your-chair-while-telling-stories-about-how-I-haven't-shaved-in-a-week. To Rusty, I am fun, exuberant, adventurous. To Mum, I smile, and keep quiet. To Naing, I smile, laugh and dance, and ask him serious womanly questions like "Does this make me look fat?". To each his own, and you all get a different look at me, while at the same time, thinking you see who I am. At the same time, I confuse myself, because I don't know who is real, and who is put on. I wish to obtain hegemony, and I am searching, searching, for who is really me. Like a train on a turntable, going round and round with many different choices, I just don't know which one is right. I cannot be flirtatious all the time, neither can I be serious, neither can I be bold, neither can I be fun. I would be exhausted. I cannot be anything all the time.

So here, I begin an exercise.

What I know about myself:
Let's start with the basics -
1. I am a member of the human race.
An admirable start.
2. I share a caucasian skin colour with many different people.
3. I am a woman (or a girl, depending on how old you are. A ten year old would say I was a woman, a sixty year old would say I was a girl).
4. My hair, for now is shortish and red. I mostly let it do it's own thing, so it curls in funny ways. Every now and then, I get it all cut off, and start again. I used to have long, long, long hair. It reached down to my bottom. It waved, and was a light brown colour, until I asked Marie to cut it all off. It was pretty ratty - I could never brush it all the way through unless I took half an hour to do so, and I never had that much time. Because of numerous lice treatments, it had taken on the texture of straw.
5. Colour of my eyes: They're not brown, and that's all I know in that regards, at least not very often.
6. My eyesight is terrible, but I wear contacts, because I hate glasses.
7. I have three brothers: Nadiel (the oldest - he is happy, self absorbed, crazy (like jumping in the baptizmal at church, just to go for a swim)), Naing (deep, hurt, emotional, moody, angry, loves to dance, practises handstands just for the fun of it, and is deadly skinny because he never eats), and JJ (head-in-the-clouds, manipulatory, funny guy, deadly skinny because he always forgets to eat, his nemisis: video games (they have a love-hate relationship)). And somewhere in the middle of that crazy mess is me: but I have no idea who I am.
8. For now, I work in a hotel. I don't really know if I tolerate the job, or if I hate it. I do know that I only enjoy the security of the job, I don't actually like it.
9. I am nineteen and one half years old, and have done nothing with my life. But I have been done to plenty, enough for the rest of my time here. Don't DO to me, I'll hate you.
10. In this quiet time of my life, I cement and put together everything else that happened during the turbulance, and hope to God that I never have to go through the rapids again.
11. I like very few things because of their own right, but I like them because other people like them, because of the memories associated with them. For example: if I have always been indifferent to a certain Picasso, and someone dear to my heart tells me why they like it, I find myself inevitably drawn to it, if only because that person does, because I like that person. I like to crochet because of the numerous times I'd sit with Marie, while crocheting, and we'd talk about deep things, and talk about boys. I like the song "I Will Survive" because of the one time that Naing and I were on the computer and found it accompanied by an alien dancing around, and eventually being squashed by the disco ball falling down on her head. But it was more about the fact that we had such fun. I don't understand how someone can make up their mind in a minute about whether they like something or not, or why you can't just tell someone that you really don't have an opinion on most things, without them being confused. Liking something is so temporary, so ephemeral, it doesn't last. If I like something, my opinion can be changed in a second, or in half an hour. How can you say then it is something that you like, if tomorrow, you might not like it? That is something I've never understood.
12. My butt is huge, by breasts are small, and my arm pits are terrible sights to behold, yet my love affair with tanktops (again, I like them because of that summertime - see previous post) will ensure that I continue to horrify the world.
13. My name intimidates me. It stands me out in the crowd, where I like to blend in.
14. I've got to go to work now, but I shall continue to write more - look for an #15 soon.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

I remember summer days. Short shorts. Warm days. Climbing the tree that stood over the bay. Feeling beautiful in the sun. Fun, that's what it was. I am always too worried about complications, consequences. And that was simply life without that.

Let it go, let it go, I always tell myself, but something within me is tenacious with a pitiful desperate intensity, about anything really. I am nervous, cautious and for some reason, it always reminds me of how a headache feels in your nose and eyes when your hands are cold. Odd, I know. That's how it feels when I worry. Summertime inconsequence. Camp this year was one of the very best times I've had. I had friends there. Sometimes I think I delude myself into thinking that quiet sunsets are the only things that matter, that writing, that drawing, that beauty, silent beauty is the only thing that matters for anything. I want to feel beautiful. But I grow up. If I used to be a violet, now I am a morning glory, reaching, reaching, climbing towards the sun, vivacious, young, full of colour. Still tentative, but fun, flexible, adventurous, going higher and higher.

Summertime makes me smile. Warm days, sand, tank tops, ice cream. But a lot of it was friends, confidence, and the lack of anything bad, the lack of worry. That is what I call perfection. Perfect days.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

The sun was just setting down beyond the trees, leaving the air clammy with the day’s precipitation, which still hung in the air and dripped now and then off the leaves. A few rivulets trickled water into the river which rushed by, secreted under the great masses of overhanging boughs, which now and then dropped a leaf that fell slowly into the churning water and disappeared. The whole sky was a lavender colour, slowly fading into plum, except for a few spikes of red cloud off on the horizon, hidden beyond the trees.

Walking quickly nearby, just under the bough of a large flowering jasmine was a slight woman, whose long, black hair reached to her fingertips as her hands hung by her side. Her eyes were deep and black and her lips were hidden by a veil. They pursed unconsciously with displeasure when the leaves dripped on her. The young woman darted in and out of the trees that grew wild along the riverbank and showered old fragrant flower petals down on her head. A ripple of jasmine mingled with the old rotting leaves, causing the forest floor to be scaled with white. She stepped quickly over the roots that grew in odd shapes across the ground and under branches that hung low across her path. Her movements were smooth but not pretty for she knew it was a dangerous thing to be walking by the river in the evening, if not because of the animals, because of the men who lived nearby, those who were too poor to have wives, who herded a few gaunt cows along the riverbank and farmed a few crops in ashy soil.

Dusk continued to fall as the woman made her way into a glen. A few thin men sat around a smoky fire, mumbling as they did about their common trade, while the cows milled nearby. She wondered absently why they would keep the cows in the open for the night. The firelight bounced off their faces illuminating strange eyebrows and sharp cheekbones. A few satchels lay nearby in wild disarray, while the three men sat on rough logs, poking sticks absently into the fire. The sparks flying upwards from the fire did nothing to light up the gathering darkness that closed in around them all. Dusk was quickly fading into night.

She took a quick glance at the three men as she hurried on past them. The man farthest from her had wide eyes that jerked nervously from thing to thing, blinking uncomfortably. He swallowed once or twice, looking like he had just eaten something foul, while the pock marks on his face contorted into lines. His adam’s apple jumped up and down tensely, as he looked around.

The man on the left sat in the dirt, leaning leisurely back against a fallen bough, giving everything in his failing sight a haughty glance. He was a larger built man, not slight or humble by anyone’s measure. He was too thin though, and the woman could see his hip bones through his clothing. Matted and dirty hair fell into his eyes as he gestured boisterously about but brushed it away with a grimy hand. He spoke too loudly for anyone’s good, and mocked his third companion’s silence.

The third companion sat by a pile of haphazardly stacked firewood that rustled now and then when he adjusted his arm that lay on it. His hair was short, and he looked to be the only respectable man in the group, if just by the way he sat looking into the fire, as if deep in meditation. He held his arms close to ward off the falling dew and mumbled now and then an answer to one of his companions.

None of them looked at the cows.

As the veiled woman hurried by, she fell on one of the outstretched roots, and landed with a large cry on the forest floor. Her leg hurt abominably. The nervous man jumped up anxiously and shouted with almost a scream at the dark shadow that gasped by the trunk of the tree. They grabbed the sticks from the fire and began to move menacingly over to where the woman lay. When they realized it was neither a malignant spirit nor an armed man, they kicked her and seized her arms, forcing her to stand up, and putting the glowing rods dangerously near her face. The big man, twisted her arm terribly, and picking her up with one hand, brought her over to the fire where they could see her better.

“What do you want?” she raged.
“What…what are you doing here?” the nervous man asked at a safe distance from her fiery eyes.
“Let me go!” she screamed, struggling all the more.
“Tell us wh…at you are doing here f…first” the man insisted while swallowing twice. He was desperately trying to stand his ground, but found her fierceness to be too strong. He looked away.
“I am going to my father’s house” she spat.
“Impossible” said the man who still held her by her arm. “Impossible” he reiterated. “You have no provisions. You were spying on us. Admit it!” he shouted in her ear with another agonizing twist to her arm. She stopped struggling, mired in pain. “You were spying on us! How long have you been listening?”
“I have no provisions because they were already taken from me by men such as yourselves!” she shouted desperately. “I have no wish to spy on you. I have my own business to attend to. I only want to be on my way.”
“What you want is of no concern to us” replied the contemplative man in a quiet tone. Then looking closer at her, asked where her husband was.
“He is dead” she answered flatly, looking calmly, but not peacefully into his black face. The man looked like he was thinking about something and said nothing for several minutes. Then he roused himself.
“He is not dead” the man replied simply. “You are running away.”
“Why do you think that?” she asked blankly.
“You always did hate him” he replied while his lips curled up in jubilee.
The woman stood there, awed for a minute by what the man said to her. No longer angry, she stood there curious, amazed.
“Who are you? And how do you know the secrets of my heart?”
He waited a minute before replying, while the sparks from the fire suddenly blazed up behind him. “Your hatred of him, underneath everything, was obvious by how you stood at his side, stone faced. Everyday, you were more rigid, looking at everything with such a fierce glare. You always reminded me of a tiger in a cage. If anyone got too close, you seemed like you would attack. Even now, Pechira, it poisons your whole face.” She flicked one hand up in protest.
“Do not forget,” her eyes were venomous, her voice fierce, “that he hated me too!” She looked at his face, to see if she could discern who he was, but failed. “Who are you?” she finally asked.
“What?” he asked with a small smile, “You don’t remember me? I worked for your husband for a little while, herding his cattle.” He motioned with one hand towards the forgotten cows. “See if you recognize any of them.”
She gave a loud and bitter laugh. “You are the cattle thief!” She laughed again. “I remember! There was something about you that made me suspicious. But I didn’t know what it was. My husband was furious with all the trouble you caused him. I heard him talking about the different ways he wanted you killed.”
“Rohani, the cattle thief, at your service.” He bowed low, laughing all the while. The big man quietly released his grip on her and she stood as one of them in the circle. “I remember how you looked at him – as if you hated every hair on his head.”
“I did” she replied plainly. “But not any more.”
“Sleep here tonight,” said Rohani. “Tomorrow we shall all accompany you on your journey to the house of your father. If your husband finds us, he shall find two of his dread enemies.” Rohani laughed again. “If you speak to your father concerning us, he may give us a boon for returning his precious daughter to him.” Pechira understood. “In the meantime, we shall take one more thing from the master who has already bestowed upon every single one of us such…” he smiled, “bounty.”

The fire was dying down, and she sat down on one of the logs, whilst they pulled food for her from out of their sacks. As she lay down to sleep with a rough, borrowed garment wrapped around her, she whispered to no one in particular, “But I didn’t lie. My husband is dead.”

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Now, I know most of you young kids out there think that spelling is of no importance - you could spell it "importence" and everyone will still know what you are talking about. Ordinarily, you are right, but on occasion, a situation does come along where it is extremely important that you get a few things right.

Iqaluit, Canada: the capital of the territory of Nunavut. The city name means "place of many fishes". A government document sent out to thousands of locals lists the place as "Iqualuit", effectively turning the "place of many fishes" into "a ring of feces around the anus". You can't tell me that's not important.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

I wrote this on May 07, 2003:

This wall, I think is really beautiful
A work of art and super strong
Invincible like Superman
Wonderful and gorgeous
Titanium is really something to behold
You should see it from this side, the way it sparkles at about 10 o'clock in the morning when the sun hits it.
But wait, I like you better on that side.
Talking to the mural who looks like me.
Isn't it great? I think it is.

Oh, but don't you see,
We're not big into doors here
Not very handy
And quite against protocol.

Yeah, sure, we all get lonely
But what's to be said for ----------.
You put it there.

But I long for you, I long for you.
Yesterday, I climbed the wall to see
How you were getting on.
Binoculars.
But then before I used them I
Put them away and climbed back down.
That would be breaking protocol
And without our protocol,
Where would we be?

©2003, 2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

It is a poor house in the forest at least, it looks it from the outside. The walls are made of greying wood, knotty and full of holes. A second story has been hastily tacked on.

Around the door there is no grass - it has all been worn away. It iss only mud now. There are dandelions, however. Somehow they still sprout prolifically, anywhere the mud will support them. They appear the favoured flower in the little garden, although a tulip, mangled a little by squirrels, gives off two leaves and a flower, missing all but one petal. You can still call it a flower, however.

Inside is dark. The glass of the windows is muddied and doesn't let too much of the evening light in. A bed sits in the corner - the only bed in the house. The blankets are dirty and a little ragged around the corners, but someone still lies under them.

The child, she sleeps with a deathly palor. She is not breathing anymore. The blankets are slipping down off her and her white hand, deathly cold it seems, is falling off the bed.

The girl, she won't laugh anymore or see the morning come once again. This is the end of the day for her and she will not see another. But she doesn't seem to mind because she lays there, still. There is no protest of complaint on her lips so we must assume this death is alright.

Daddy comes to kiss her goodnight. The little girl is already asleep though, so he tucks the blankets up around her chin - she seems a little cold. He whispers a prayer and then sings the girl a lullabye - the one he sings her everynight.

The next night he does the same thing and every night for a hundred years. He always sings the lullabye. A hundred years go by and still he tucks her in every night. The cabin rots and falls down around them but they pay it no mind. The forest comes in and takes over and in the fall showers dead leaves down around them but they don't notice. A hundred years pass and nothing changes. Still this lullabye haunts the forest night after night with its coming as Daddy sings to the girl who is so cold.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

When I just begin to dream, you kiss my cheek. Who are you that kisses me? For I open my eyes, and there is no one there. A dream, every night, you are the dream that keeps me here, but the dream that drives me to despair, that sickens my heart with longing. More than anything, I want your kiss on my cheek. I want to know that you are there, and not just some machination of a mind falling down.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Last night I got so drunk, and it didn't make me any happier. I just stumbled around the basement, trying to appear as if I were sober. I could barely walk. Except stairs, I did the stairs rather easily, I felt like I was being carried up, oddly enough. Getting drunk by yourself is never any good, but Naing was there. I puked six times, but it wasn't bad. It's twenty four hours later, and I still feel like I'm going to puke. It was the most pleasant puking I've ever done though, I have to admit. It was just straight forward, straight into the toilet which was clean for once, no chunks, just drink, no spills, no splashbacks. He turned on the water too, so Mum wouldn't hear when she came down to get her laundry, wouldn't hear me puking.

I don't remember much. All I remember is that I was getting drunker and drunker. I downed about 7 glasses of vodka and Sprite in half an hour, as well as a half of a glass of sake, and felt just fine, until a little while later, when I started to feel the effects of the first glass.

When I sat up on the fridge, I rocked uncontrollably, which was wierd, so I ended up lying down on Naing's lap and telling him the etymology of the word Butterfly - buterflie, buttorfleoge, boterschijte (I don't think I spelled it right though). And then papillion in French, and mariposa in Spanish, and psyche in Greek. Butterflies hold such a strange place in my head, if you ever wanted to know. They are very simple things - they seem like geisha sailors, sailing about on chinese fans. So simple. Our German heritage naming them after what their fecal matter looked like. How terribly practical. But look deeper.

The Greeks named them after a breath, a soul.
In Latin - the pavilion where the spirit of a dead person was gathered was beneath their wings.
In Spanish they were the touch of the Virgin Mary.

I don't know if he thought it was terribly interesting. But I realized this strange, insane desire I have:
I wish that you knew about me, knew about the little things - like how I feel about butterflies.

I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly,
or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I was a man.
--Chuang Tse

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.