Notes On The Past Week

By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: August 16, 2009


1) The woman I am in love with is seven years older than me, yet much too young. She was brought up by her mother who is fifty seven, yet younger than her. I wrote her a poem once, in which I painted her a mountain and placed myself, a pilgram, on it’s peak.
When I touch her body, it is soft, fresh, the tissues are developing. She smiles at me, so sweetly gently, that I forget I am on a mountain. That I can’t travel anywhere unless I find someway to get down.
2) My anxiety has been terrible. Like a drawer where you last kept your opium, like Leonard says, except it feels like the drawer is me. I am glad that I remember how to perform who Jehangir is – what he says, how he looks, how he feels. I make jokes about my man-breasts, memorize clever things and pretend like I did when I was trying to impress my teacher in grade two who I was attracted too without knowing really what to do about it. I know what to do, it just seems I’m very persistent.

3) My lungs are like two very old oven mitts, like two over weight rabbits, like two vaccum bags that my grandmother forgot to change. They have been acting weird, tighting and twitching, but I’m learning to see that they look up to me.

4) I had some very impure thoughts about a refreshingly simple looking woman who works at the circulation desk at the Ryerson Library. I have a thing for librarians – women who touch a lot of books. I know nothing about her, only that he has green sandals and goofy looking toes which always seems stained with the earth. I want so bad to get back to what it real, to feel my feet pressed firmly into the earth, to have something support my body. We don’t have sex, she just reads to me.
I was in grade four, working on a project. I had left it to the “last minute”, or so thought my father, but what he really meant was, “what you have isn’t good enough, so you need to do it again”. It was midnight. My project was on some sort of poisonous African frog. My father had no patience, and I remember having some sort of fantasy where he was yelling at me because I wasn’t understanding someone quickly enough, and imaging myself because saved from an army of green and red poisonous African frogs who injected my father with their venom.
My father screamed at me because I didn’t indent my last line and this somehow proved that I wasn’t paying attention. His ears were red, and cheeks were puffing out like someone trying to steal sweets in their mouth. I always avoided his eyes.

For the mystery, for the void, which we don’t need to understand, but merely exist within.

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