What's in a life?

While waiting for my ride, something small and animate caught my eye...

I watched the bee fighting the perilous wind in order to take flight. I felt a sudden urge to cheer it along. I felt a pang of compassion for the insect and a fiercer still desire for it to succeed and prove the wind weak. A helpless little bee fighting the elements tore my heart out of my chest and replaced it upside down. It was the most illogical feeling, the absurdest of absurd responses, but I couldn't help it.

When I saw the red VW bug, I ran hurriedly to the passenger. It was the horrifying squish that made me look down. I beheld the carcass of a once endearing bee. This time salt was poured into my chest before my heart was returned.

When Thoreau implied that every life has inherent value, he meant every life has the ability to crumple you up and unfold you in the same instant. Every life has the capacity to mean something to you.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be a bird, even for a day? But I wouldn’t want to be just any bird; I would run the risk of being somebody's dinner because of my mediocrity or caged for being too precious. I would hate to end up like Tweety. Now, I wouldn’t mind being an albatross, the odds would be against me, but if I could beat them, I couldn’t get shot at, due to VIB status as an endangered species, or eaten because I could fly. And to fly, knowing I won’t fall. But that might spoil the thrill of plunging. The essence of throwing oneself not expecting to be caught would be obliterated; however, even I do not enjoy the prospect of plummeting to my death. Perhaps that explains my drop-of-the-hat willingness to fly in a plane. Gliding on a blanket of marshmallows has its appeal, no doubt. But what pleasure could I possibly extract from being a birdbrain? Maybe I would enjoy fish-hood as a deep-sea creature, perhaps as one of those that seem to have crawled straight off the stars and into the ocean, trading the outer space vacuum for deep-see pressure.

But human contact, the one predicament, would remain. I guess the problem with being human is our inherent dependence on other humans to be there too. We don’t make it for long without each other. 

I hate bugs. It seems so nonsensical that the bite from something so minuscule, so negligible could cause so much pain. I do not enjoy thinking about bugs, you see I can not help but imagine the person to which each bug corresponds. Sadly, I know too many bugs.

This part of the day is the worst. It lasts too long and the anticipation of its end seems unbearable. I must conceal the utter disdain I feel sitting beside a bed bug and across from a walking stick. Now the walking stick I do not mind so much. Engaging in decent conversation with something that goes out of its way to blend in is not difficult, since the animate twig has nothing but disguise on its mind, at least it makes an effort to mask whatever it feels with its surroundings. Both the walking stick and the bed bug make amends to fit in, the deceptive nature of the bed bug, however, exceeds that of the stick because it makes the most intimate part or your life its natural habitat—the bed bug lurks just under your subconscious mind at rest. It observes and scrutinizes your most vulnerable state—stage N3 NREM (non-rapid eye movement) sleep, when you walk to the fridge to smother a frozen brownie in maple syrup and chocolate sauce at the same time or when you gorge on mashed potatoes and meatloaf or if you don’t do it, you’re thinking, dreaming about it—night after night after night.

So, the bed bug, as harmless as it seems is more dangerous than a walking stick. The very nature of the walking stick makes it harmless. It hides only because it’s afraid of being found. The bed bug maintains a nocturnal awareness out of choice, it is hardly noticed during the day, anyway. The walking stick is deliberate, almost graceful, for selfish reasons. For survival. The bed bug sustains a pitiful existence on what remnants of other creatures it stumbles upon, hardly swan-like. For example the bed bug’s mouth waters at the thought of crumbs dragged to bed between the ridges of the skin, and when crumbs are not available the bed bug bites what it could never chew.

After sucking blood or nibbling dead skin, the bed bug becomes dormant while you regain consciousness. In the morning, you are left with a small, nagging, insignificant pink spot, so tiny it should be ashamed to consider itself a sore. Nonetheless, it will annoy you throughout the day so when you return home and your loved one asks how your day went, you snap, then apologize and look down at the back of the calf that fell victim, regretfully and because you are so expended by the unfolding of the day, you decide you go to bed earlier than usual, though it is late. The worst part is the bed bug is waiting for you. 

Purpose...Here boy

Why did you open my eyes

to a life of contemplation?

I have to find my purpose.

I've looked under the bed,

in my closet,

in the shoe cabinet, 

but I can't seem to get a hold of it.

Maybe I'm expecting something really big.

But I should be looking for a dust particle.

Or does it rest in the depths of Pandora's box? 

But I've looked there too

and all I found was confusion. 

I need my mommy, she'll know what to do.

She always knows what to do.

When I lost my mind,

she told me to look in the washing machine,

and it was in the spin cycle. 

Maybe I was too late, but I found my mind. 

So, where do I look?

I could climb Everest and look for it on the summit, 

or just walk up a hill and knock on my neighbor's door,

maybe he's seen it.

How much purpose should I look for?

A lot or a little?

When I find my purpose, 

I'm gonna put a leash on it,

so it doesn't run away.

I'm gonna take it for a walk,

and I'll take it shopping, 

and to the movies, and everywhere I go. 

But I figure, once I get tired of it,

once I get a job, nine to five, 

I'll lock it up in my mind,

and pretend I lost it in the rinse cycle,

or that I never found it at all. 

What My Grandmother Said When It Rained

 

We knew they were coming.

All night we could hear machetes

whirring in our ears.

The Turks gave themselves away;

they drank all night,

and in the morning beat the horses.

 

So Papa took all the money and jewels:

the fat gold coins, the turquoise,

braids of gold chains we’d wear once

a year, rings silver and almost soft,

and the brooches from Greece, topaz,

onyx, jade.

There were stones of colors

You cannot name,

I can still see them…

 

He packed them all

into the ceiling,

into the dark space above the house.

I always thought the devil

lived there.

Papa hid them all

in the ceiling,

and told us someday,

someday we’ll return

and be rich again.

 

Sometimes when it rains,

when the sun shakes behind the clouds

and the summer air cools

so the windows darken,

I hear God with a fist full

of coins in his big wild hand

 

I hear them spill in a mountain

over the floor of dark air

above the clouds-

the shaking gold pieces,

the gems deep green

like my husband’s eye.

Peter Balakian

Even Hypocrisy Would Cringe

All that’s left now

is to cry a fire

and let it incinerate

all the Gucci and Prada

in my closet,

even though they’re charged on plastic.

I wish those tears burn my eyes,

leaving scars,

in place of all the aching they’ve done,

over trivial matters,

out of weakness, sloth,

and utter disregard of the broken human spirit.

I am human

and so are you.

Yet every day is a new day

to deny you—your humanity.

Investments in economic disasters

are no issue to argue over.

But charity is another story.

So suppose I ever had the chance

to be in your presence?

What right would I have to walk beside you

and to hold your hand

and declare my place in society

alongside you?

As I sit here, in my balcony, I watch airplane after airplane land in Van Nuys airport every 5 minutes for perfectly scheduled landings. Life in solitude would be nice, I think, as my sister interrupts my nostalgic daydream. Listening to “Highway to Hell” as I write an essay analyzing the relationship between truth and fiction, using Life of Pi as evidence makes for an unfathomable regularness, though strangely fulfilling. How could life get any more normal? I don’t know, but I wish something would happen. Something other than the usual Sunday evening spent waiting for dinner, doing homework, waiting for something extraordinary. Watching 12 planes land every hour leaves an inexplicable feeling in the pit of my body…it’s depressing, it only reminds me of my plane that has yet to take off. How long am I going to wait? How impatiently? How anxiously? My sister brings me a token, a deformed, mini, half-baked baguette from Trader Joe’s. We both laugh.

Pi is faithful; I am not faithful at all. That’s why I admire him. Another plane.

Across the balcony, two palm trees sway in the valley breeze. They remind me of my mom and dad. From here, they seem to have sprung up from nowhere, but worry not, when you look out and down from the balcony, the trees are rooted in a neighbor’s backyard. The count is up to 9. We have a lemon tree. But the one lemon that actually seems promising is drooping like a sad child, bowing its head like a faithful subject in the kingdom of fate. The next plane is scheduled to descend in two minutes.