My mother's name

My mother's name is Mahjabeen.

Mahjabeen means moon-like radiance and it's translated from Persian. My mother was not Persian but she does have a history as wild as her name.

"Mahj," I'd say. "Like a spoonerism of Taj Mahal."

There is a picture of my parents in front of the Taj Mahal in our basement and my mother's black mane is blowing crazily in the wind. She's wearing a wine-coloured sari and my dad is wearing acid washed jeans and shaggy blonde hair and a grey windbreaker and glasses like Hunter S. Thompson.

Mahj. A strange sound in some mouths.

At work in Toronto she went by Marina. People would call the house and ask for Marina and people from her office would call her Marina and her friends would call her Marina and I wondered who this other lady was at first.

She told me once that she started going by Marina because her name sounded too foreign to be taken seriously for any worthwhile opportunity.

For her it was nothing but a strategic move, one that worked quite well.

i was with her

i held her hand. i put my face next to hers and counted her breaths. she hadn't been speaking for at least a day. she had been unconscious for a number of hours. her breaths were so shallow. i held her hand. i told her i loved her, that i was there, over and over until the words became meaningless.

at one moment, she was there - a flicker of life, weak, but still there. and the next moment, she was gone. 

i had expected there to be some sort of grand realization. some sort of grandiose shift in the metaphysical fabric of reality. but it was so quiet. one moment there, and one moment gone. 

what is it?

what is this life that can be, at one moment, present, and the next, gone? it can be dwindled, too, i saw it dwindle. but there is a perceptible moment when it leaves. gone. what is it?

consciousness that emerges from patterns of electrical activation, in synchronicity with the swirling chemical maelstrom of the body. a history. a voice. feelings, chemicals. sensation. perception. internal monologue, thought. the future, like a path unfolding from your chest.

what does it feel like to have it winked out? what does it feel like to not have a future? in her circumstance, did it narrow, or fade, or slowly dissociate?

did she know i was holding her hand?

  

when i try to reflect upon my own consciousness i experience something akin to what you see when you place two mirrors facing each other. except this time my face and the back of my head aren't in the way. i can see the path leading all the way in. but i can't look into it because the depth of it makes me shut my eyes. i can't look into it too far, because i can't begin to comprehend. 

i of course reflect upon my own mortality. time. the fact of dwindling, which is the act of aging. the inevitable experience of knowing just what it is like to have no future. an answer known, and never shared.

what is it like to live your last second in that knowing?

i worry about those that i love. i am snappish and snide and sarcastic at times. do they know that i love them? how can i protect this blaze of life inside of them? how can i cup the flicker in my hands? how do i know that when i say goodbye, i will see them again? what if i'm not there to hold their hands?
 
  

the grief rolls and roils. it is eternal, because death is eternal. and we manage, because we have a future. there will be another moment that follows this one. and another. and another.

and another.

when you live inside dissonance, it also lives inside you

I am a world of opposites coinciding and colliding. 

Swirling inside of me are a million conflicting sentiments. Inside my mind, a million distinct realities flash before my eyes and vanish instantaneously. The fact that I can actualize only one shakes me to my core. I am a maelstrom of thoughts and emotions that I can't begin to understand.

What the hell are emotions, even? Strange halfway things between thoughts and chemistry. Halfway between mind and body. A script running through your head coupled with the roiling of your guts. Irrational, inexplicable, and inevitable. 

How can so many conflicting thoughts and feelings reside within one person at one time? Yet this is normal. It's normal to feel X and Y at the same time, to feel happiness and sadness intermingled, to sense the kaleidoscope constantly refracting inside of you, creating shapes and patterns that are as senseless as they are beautiful. I keep reminding myself, it's normal, it's normal. 

I feel the opposing aspects of myself swirling around each other like snakes. 

It's my 26th birthday. If my 20s are a hill, I've crested and am rolling down the other side. Due to the nature of aging, the years seem shorter, and will always seem so. I'm grateful to be older, because it means I've survived this far. Also the wisdom that age and experience affords is immeasurable and I know it will only increase exponentially. I am much more secure than I ever have been, in many ways. But in other ways, I am more terrified than I have ever been. The future gapes like a treacherous and breathtaking valley. I don't know if I can weather the terrain but I have to try because there is no other way to get to the other side.

I've been living in Trinidad for the past six weeks. God it's beautiful here. Everything is so vibrant, even the colours are brighter here. I've been working here, getting to know people who I've come to love, soaking myself in movement and music, enjoying the sun and the ocean, the mountains lush with green, everything all at once, everywhere. And I miss my family. I miss my friends. I miss home, terribly and profoundly. I miss home, and I don't want to go home. I want to stay here in this strange new universe, and I want to go back to what I know and love. 

I am terrified, and I am excited. I am optimistic, and I feel doomed. I am calm, and I am exploding. I am healthy, and I am pathological. I crave the cradle of ocean, and I am unnerved by its vastness.

And I just keep reminding myself, this is normal, this is normal.  

everyone is doing amazing things: forever wavering on the edge of inspiration and defeat

Everyone is doing amazing things.

Or so it seems. This perception is mostly created through my consumption of social media, though it's also bolstered by conversations, those in which I am a direct participant as well as those I overhear:

She does rigorous workouts or runs everyday. They've been travelling for the past two months with seemingly endless supplies of money. This person's hard work is being nominated for an award. That person just got the job of their dreams. They're doing amazing work in social activism. He just moved into an affordable apartment in an ideal location.  

Whereas I feel like my wheels are spinning, constantly. 

I won't go into an extensive list of all of the areas in which I'm constantly missing the mark. The point of writing this is to explore further the constant conflict that arises inside of me whenever I hear about others' good news. This is the conflict that exists between inspiration and crushing defeat. 

Whenever I hear of someone doing very well, my thoughts automatically turn to a spiral of the following nature: "This person is doing so much better than I am. Why? Because they are working harder than I am. Why? Because they are more disciplined and talented than I am, because I am lazy and I waste time doing meaningless things. They are far more deserving than I am."

Lately, I have tried to train myself into thinking an opposite thought to balance this out: "Don't feel defeated in the face of others' success, be inspired by it. Feel happy for them, because jealously will get you nowhere. The only answer ever is to try harder. Work harder. Be better." 

But in the face of this thought, another echoes back: "I already feel like I'm trying so hard. I need to take care of myself sometimes, and take some time to rest."  

And again, in retaliation: "You are using that as an excuse to be lazy. People don't get ahead by taking breaks. People get ahead by working harder than everyone else."

And so on. The spiral continues, the constant conversation between Inspiration, who wants to kick my ass into working harder, and Defeat, who is unknowingly trying to convince me to lie down and give up on everything. 

I am aware that people present themselves on social media in a manner that accentuates their strong points. But why shouldn't they? Why shouldn't they talk about how well they're doing, all the fun they're having, the success they're experiencing, the life they're living? Even if embellished or carefully selected, these positive moments in the lives of others are real. 

(Further, a side note: This conflict between inspiration and defeat only arises when I am made aware of something that someone has achieved by virtue of earning it. If I hear about someone doing something fun or 'achieving' something noteworthy, and, in my perception, they didn't earn it, I have just one reaction: anger tinged with jealously. I have nothing but contempt for people who preach the joys of 'living the good life' while not acknowledging their own privilege in being able to live such a life in the first place without actually working for it. I acknowledge that this is probably not a healthy reaction.)

I am either not trying hard enough, or being too hard on myself. All of the evidence points to the former. Everyone I know who is doing well does it by the grace of their own willpower and talent, and the work that they are willing to put into what they care about. And privilege may factor into it, but fuck I have so much more privilege than many other people I know who are doing better than I am. What does this say about me?

The kind of life I want to live does not involve working constantly at a job that I hate, or even resent. It involves taking time to have fun and be with the people I want to be with, to have time to explore the world and new experiences, to learn. Is this selfish? Life is so short. I definitely want to work, and understand that it's necessary. In work, I need to contribute to the world that has given me so much. I just want a job wherein I can feel like I'm making a difference, something intrinsically motivating. I know that if I find something like this, work won't feel like torture at all, rather it'll feel like some sort of torch to bear, and bear proudly. 

But what is the likelihood of any of this actually happening? I feel like it's less and less each day. I feel that in this world, in this job market, young people have to break their backs to earn one inch of success. Are we just made to suffer our whole lives, striving to be so fucking busy working at draining jobs that we can't enjoy anything? And then die? It's overwhelmingly sad. How to not be this, to not live that kind of life?

And then, I wonder, is this attitude what is holding me back? Should I just resolve myself to the fact that I'll need to fucking commit to this life of working constantly to experience any measure of success? 

Should I drop everything and just run into the fields and build a cabin in the woods or run away and work in a coffeeshop in Grenada? Should I just leave everything behind and roam city to city playing my guitar for money, not knowing where I'll sleep? 

Will I ever be happy with anything that I have?

And a third voice, arising out of the conflict of the first two, arising out of the jagged edges between inspiration and defeat:

"You're so fucking selfish to want that. Don't you see how lucky you are. You are so fucking selfish. Just shut up and stop whining about your non-problems."

How to proceed in the face of any of this? Of course there is no other option but to proceed. 

And so I spin my wheels. 

anxiety - a free writing experiment

there's a faucet in my chest that doesn't turn off. i called the plumber but he doesn't do house calls. maybe there's a way i can reach inside and turn it off. i've tried for years but i can't find a keyhole, can't find the way in. maybe it's on the back of my neck where i can't see it, maybe someone else could open it up for me, but they always say that you have to do these things for yourself, no shortcuts, no easy way out. maybe i'm stuck with this. maybe it will never go away. what do i do when i start to overflow? there must be an emergency shut-off valve somewhere.

there's something so fleeting about relief, but maybe that's why it's so sweet, they call it sweet relief because it is so fleeting. but where there's no justice there can still be calm and where there are no answers there can still be serenity and acceptance. 

there is a stream of cold water constantly flowing inside of me but cold water feels nice sometimes. could i learn to love this? to lean in to this and live this? like Sisyphus and his rock? is this my boulder to be forever rolled up the incline of my insides? it's always there, like a hunger, like a rainstorm in my guts, but rainstorms although dangerous can be beautiful, like lightning striking wet earth, ozone and petrichor, the smell of simultaneous creation and destruction, lighting strikes inside me, fizzles down my throat and lands in my guts, sets the sea inside me to crackling, sets the ocean ions aflame with untapped energy.

i am a maelstrom. look into my eye and you will see calm but i am on fire on the inside. 

the evolution of my understanding of death/the concert i went to last night

This post could begin in one of two ways:

1. With a history of the evolution of my understanding of death and mortality, or

2. With a description of the concert I went to last night. 

The Concert I Went to Last Night

I think I'll start with the concert, as it's somewhat of a more gradual jumping-off-point.

I had the pleasure of seeing the wonderful Rich Aucoin yesterday with a bunch of lovely friends and their lovely friends. My friends had somewhat prepared me for what I was about to experience while at the same time assuring me that there was no way that I could be in any way prepared for what I was about to experience. I knew that there was to be tons of dancing, and confetti, and perhaps even a large gradeschool-style play-parachute unfurled over our heads and set aloft by our wildly gesticulating hands. I was told that the music was extremely positive and happy and that I would be in for a wild and fun time. 

I was in no way prepared for being metaphorically punched in the gut at the very outset by a frank exploration of the anxiety that is produced by the universality of the knowledge of impending death. 

Before the music even started, a black screen alighted with giant white lettering, a transcription of a monologue wherein a man went into an exposition of the idea that all of us worry about death, and particularly, the intense fear that we all have about the prospect of wasted time. I, who had come expecting sunshine and rainbows and sweet-sounding square wave, was floored. I grabbed the sides of my head and drank in every word. I grabbed my friend Kate's shoulder and yelled in her ear, "Oh my god! This is really existential!" to which she responded with a knowing smile. 

The rest of the concert carried on with similar themes - the songs, so upbeat and happy and confetti-strewn and parachute-covered, all explored existential themes, the shortness of life, the need to make the most of time with friends before they die, and in the face of death's inevitability, the absolute necessity of human connection and kindness and care towards others. The final message was a call to action to do something with what we'd heard that night: "We won't leave it all in our heads."

I was left reeling after the concert, feeling somewhat bereft, standing with my friends on the dance floor as the lights came up, confetti sticking to my sweat-slicked skin, wailing, "I have to do more! I have to be a better person!" over and over again. I was completely choked up. I didn't know what to do. "I try to be good but it's so hard!" I wailed to my friends, who were quick to reassure me of my worth as a human being. (They had seen Rich Aucoin several times before and, I think, were better prepared to deal with the existential sucker-punch to the soul than I was). 

Happiness, music, dancing, loss, anxiety, the fear of wasting time, the fear of death's imminence. All of it rolled up together and given as a gift to me.

The Evolution of My Understanding of Death

(I of course keep my mother in mind at all times during this self reflection. I lost her recently and feel her everywhere, in every word, every heartbeat that is emptier than it once was. I think often about losing the ones I love, of them dying. This may sound morbid, but in reality it allows me to further appreciate the wonderful people I have around me, the privilege I experience just to know them and the responsibility I have to care for them.)

Since I was very young I have always thought a lot about death. I have a personal essay that I wrote about Saint-Exupéry's book The Little Prince when I was thirteen. In it I talk at length about the main message of the book, in my understanding: That the joy and wonder that we experience in childhood is something that we should strive to hold close within our hearts for our whole lives, because the world is a beautiful and magical place, and to lose this to the cynicism of adulthood is life's greatest tragedy. In the essay I lament that I had done nothing with my life at thirteen, and that I felt that I had wasted a great deal of time. I wrote about my impending death and the fear that I would waste my life without ever feeling truly fulfilled. Luckily I happened to have a weird and wonderful teacher and he totally understood that it was completely normal for a thirteen year old to have such thoughts and didn't report me to the guidance counselor, but instead offered to engage in a discussion on the topic with me, peer to peer. 

I've written about time and death on multiple occasions, in songs and in pieces of writing, and on my own clothes and skin with pens and razorblades. My anxiety around the passage of time and the imminence of death was a large component of the deep and seductive depression that I struggled with throughout my life, especially in my teens when it was in its most acute form. 

I was terrified of wasting time. I was terrified of being no one, of having nothing to offer, nothing to be proud of, I was terrified of dying without doing something that mattered. I was consumed by those thoughts for many years. (I still grapple with this all the time but now I am capable of keeping the anxiety shelled up inside of my chest rather than letting it rip me to pieces in despair.)

I started coming to terms with the imminence of death when I started reading existential philosophy. In particular, Camus' The Myth of Sisyphus and Sartre's Existentialism as a Humanism were important pieces of writing for me. In their own way, the texts argue that the absurdity of life (in that we are all going to die one day) is not a cause for despair, but rather a spur for motivation and even a source of joy. Existentialism as a Humanism illuminates the absolute freedom of choice that human beings have, the absolute responsibility we have to make the most of life as we know it. In Sartre's words, "[Existentialism] puts every man in possession of himself as he is, and places the entire responsibility for his existence squarely upon his own shoulders." A terrifying prospect? Not quite. Paralyzing? Not even close. Sartre argues that "No doctrine is more optimistic, the destiny of man is placed within himself. Nor is it an attempt to discourage man from action since it tells him that there is no hope except in his action, and that the one thing which permits him to have life is the deed."  Furthermore, Sartre explains that existentialism involves absolute responsibility to others, as well as oneself. In our absolute freedom of action, we set the tone for the way that we believe all people ought to act. He argues, "I am creating a certain image of man as I would have him to be. In fashioning myself I fashion man."

The transcendental experiences that we seek lie in our own hearts, argues Sartre. We need look no further than our own selves in order to encounter the means to achieve all that we need to achieve*. Rather than this being crushing and harrowing, he argues that it is the ultimate optimism. We have absolute power to change ourselves for the better, even if it's just in a small way. 

This was the charge that was laid at my feet at the end of the concert, something I've always believed but was in need of reminding of: It is within my power to do better, to be better, to acknowledge my responsibility to myself and to others, to strive to become better, to make something of my life. This is the despair and triumph of my absolute freedom. This despair and triumph live simultaneously together, twisting like snakes, or a helix of DNA. I feel the world drop out from under my feet with the gravity of this responsibility, but I also feel the joy of being able to do good in this world and to be kind and caring towards others, with even simple gestures. 

I feel the challenge of my life's work calling me. How to be something? How to be someone? How to do everything I can to be everything I can to everyone I can? The challenge is mine and mine alone. I live with the despair and triumph living inside of me each day, and I contain the anxiety and the knowledge of my imminent death, and hold that knowledge inside of me like a precious stone. 

*He provides a perfunctory explanation of 'conditions' of living that create inequalities in lifestyle (e.g. an indentured worker vs. a bourgeoisie) but argues that in every circumstance we have the power of choice. I am sure there is a sociological rebuttal of this argument that is quite apparent (especially because Sartre himself was an upper class, white male) but I'll leave this for now.