Luke, I’m your father

What is it about showers that get us thinking the weirdest stuff?

Pic not mine. Credit below.

Pic not mine. Credit below.

So here I am, washing my hair, proceeding with my body when this thought assaults me. What if fathers and sons who share the same name, do so as a reaffirmation of his paternal rights? Think about it. We know moms are moms because, well, because they popped the baby out, but  how in the times where technologies could not confirm his fatherhood could possibly dads know the baby was theirs? By claiming it. Surely, if there was a suspicion of unfaithfulness naming your son after you could not possibly make the child yours, in the case your spermatozoon was not the first to land, that is.

However, this theory has a but. What about moms and daughters who are named the same? Is it a sign of equality that women started claiming their right to do, and doing, the same? Is just parenting pride or a sign of kinship, regardless of who produced the baby,  that is being transmitted? Was the watter too hot and am I talking utter bullshit?

Thoughts?

Credit

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Honesty blog

I wrote that ^^ when I started this blog. The reason? In a conundrum of classificatory titles (beauty blog, humour blog, whatever blog) I could not find myself represented. I could have then called it Pariah Blog yet that was offensive against my own persona, I am in a battle to love myself, so I decided on Honesty Blog. And today in one my worst weeks I feel the need to remember that this is indeed my place to open up and speak.
I am stressed, I am angry, I am frustrated, I am sleep deprived, I am the worst me.
Problem #1: how hard can it be for a bank to write a statement saying I have money and I can use it? Well, apparently it is and the incomprehensibleness of the situation is freaking me out.
Problem #2: a notification that if I don’t pay my flight today the price will go up. Why.didnt.you.tell.me.that.before.?. Like one of those three days I’ve been waiting for you to reply to my previous email?
Problem #3: team mates trying to not attend our first, last and only meeting for the presentation on Tuesday. Are you kidding me??? Bonus: she doesnt even reply to my messages.
All in a day were I have reduced time because a) i have a paper to write, b)i have a paper to revise (#easteriscomiiing), c) i finally got to meet my friends to celebrate my bday which was on 4th March, d) i have to pay the freaking flight
*Heavy breathing*
You feel me?
Floure

Floure

Give me a minute

How did we end up here is beyond me. I once hated him. Or so I thought. I knew there was a feeling there that made me erratic and anxious to the point that my chest hurted. I thought I hated him because that is the natural reaction to someone’s bullying and dismissal. I thought I hated him because there was no other feeling to have in such a situation. I hated him because there was no reason for his behaviour but pure and absolute hate towards me; and so, I hated him.

Time has passed and I wished it would be more time so our relationship would be ridiculously justified by the passing of the years, as if all that time would say: things have changed. But the truth is that in a short period of time the feelings remain the same though we might not call it hate. I still feel erratic and anxious, and my chest still hurts, for him.

My dad is holding my hand the best he can, he is as nervous as I am but at least he is not shaking. I am dressed in white, pretty flowers in hand and traditions and superstitions hang on my body. My best friend is a few feet ahead of me, talking to the children and somewhere further away is him.

I take one step forward. Another. One more. Another one. Countless more. And I feel his hand on mine, I see a little glow in his eyes and a gulp down his throat. This is a moment in life and last night, when we were apart, we promised that we cheriss this moment for the rest of our lives, no matter what, this minute counts.

I feel his hand slowly, deliberately caressing my skin from my hand to my waist. My pulse in raicing and I don’t understand what he’s doing, but if this is what he wants, me, his bride, won’t say no. He takes half a step closer and pushes me to meet him halfway. He presses his forehead to mine and breaths happily. I look up at him and quickly wipe that traitor tear and smile at him. His traveling and active hands take my face in warm embrace and he gets close enough that only me can listen him whispering “give me just a minute”.

Like that, memories flood me of all the times that he has said that, and right know the meaning is more evident to me than ever before. He said it before our first I love you. Struggling with his speech, he just took a deep breath looked me in the eye as he hold me close. After a minute of feeling us, there was no need to say it but he still did it.

Before I met his dad, he hold me safely in his arms and said “I’m here, you can have a minute”.

When we told the world about our love we fought the painful shock and surprise as best as we could. By the time we got to the cab hand by hand and sat, he said “I think I need a minute, love” and so I crawled to his lap and hold him tight.

Now, on the day of our union, if he wants me to be close, connected, being one with him, that I give to him. I give him all my minutes.

You have to say it

She crosses the room, her goal the closed door, the exit from this pitch of  hell. Anger all over her face, pain on her tensed soulders, tears just in the back of her eyes, ready, all too ready, to spill and soak her constricted face. She is about to reach the door knob and god knows slamming the freaking door in his much beloved yet absolutely unwelcome face when he takes her hand. A finger of his caresses her cold skin. Taking a firm grip, to never let her go, forces her to turn around, to face him. He looks at her directly in her eyes and it pains him the pain he has put her in. A look in her face he wishes never to see again dates him to say anything, anything else that is. But he doesnt, and wishes that she can feel his remorse on his watery eyes and if possible, maybe, if he is really, really lucky, she doesnt turn back around and leave him. He wishes that she stops seing his body and flesh and see what really is in front of her, his naked, pleading soul. – You have to say it. Silence. – You have to say it, you have to. I can’t always assume, you have to say it. – I am sorry. I am sorry that you are upset with me and I am sorry for doing that to you, for pushing you away. Life is a mess right now, I am a mess and I pour it all down on you, and I break us apart and I am sorry, I really am. It will never ever happen again, of that you can be sure. For the first time, grabing his warm hand she reciprocates the union. She doesnt smile or say anything, she is not done and it will take time for her to forget. But for now, she can take his hand, lead him back in and listen to him explain. Floure

Better than silence – In the rain on a day when it poured down on me

Pluuff!!
Loud the chair hit the floor. And so did I. My legs were unnaturaly facing north, chest up and down as it struggled to breath in the sock, pain and embarrasment. This was one of those things were if it is going to happen, is going to be in a crowded place, like now, and as noticeably as possible, like now.
I stayed there waiting for a helping hand, a soul crashing reaction or for me to be effectively swallowed, along with my chair of course, by the artificial ground. But none of it happened. Just silence. Many stares and silence.

Yay, I’m back!!! I just finished an exam and it wasn’t good may sweet lord Wordsworth forgive me for incorrectly analysing his poem and so I needed to cheer up.
I woke up this morning to a weirdly quiet house and thought about how awful it is when you fall or do something embarrasing in front of everyone (like showing up naked 😍) and wondered if there is anything more painful than the laughs that follow. Silence. I think silence is worst than any word. When someone ignores you, when you cry and there are no worths of comfort, when something happens and you get no explanations, when you say i love you and you don’t get an i live you too, when you are trying to reach that person but you cannot anymore. Gosh, let me laugh noisily, soundly, dramatically, extravagantly, embarrasingly, obnoxiously. Let me laugh and kill silence.

Floure

Two armies

Non-discriminatory pity for all those involved in fighting.
I stumbled across this quote (all due credit to my professor) revising for my exam on Wednesday yep two days to go and I still find gems like that one in my notes of Stephen Spender’s poem Two Armies.
It is a wonderful quote, innit? Is meaningful, strong and concise, all that is needed to say in just the most elementary words yet still hits you like a convoy.
I am not going to dwell in the topic, but one recommendation I got from my revising:

image

if you don’t care about the sides but the human losses on a conflict and like some poetry, try this fella Stephen Spender.

Picture credit

Floure