Processing Reality

Some

times

It’

s hard to keep thing

s straight. Wha

t’s the differ

ence between real

ity and sub

conscious

ness. Some

times, I can

not tell.

You’ve Got a Friend in Your Split Personality

I am very lucky to have friends who understand the psychosis, who fuel it, and support it through a creative medium. Here is a collaborative zene talking about our inner monsters.

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(Special thanks to: Adrianna Sauceda, Donovan VimCrony, Toni Neezy. Dear friends, if I missed you, let me know your tag and I will be sure to add you :))

 

Who Were You?

The silk nightgown hung loose ending
just above your knees
as you frantically run between bedroom and closet.
You have a house now, all your own.
And two dogs, all your own.

You’re not married,
but you were never one for

emotionless paperwork.
You have five children,
just like your mother.
And you can make people laugh,
just like your father.
You have green eyes of the emerald isle,
yet the life behind them is from a different place.

Who were You?
What names were you called by?
What were your hopes, dreams,
Regrets?
What drove you?
Who were you?

I see the Annie in the pictures with the pink.

I see the Anne in green.
I see the wife in white,
and the mother in red.

But who were you?

I know the stories.

Do you see yourself in me?
Were you, too, the square whose that hurts itself
moving like a circle?

You have seen me as I was, am, and will be.
But who were you?
Is Annie gone never to return?
Will I see her on the street and not recognize her?
Would I like her?
Would she like me?

love me?

When were you divided?
The woman sawed in half,
The hopeless housewife,
The interrogator,
The stubborn independent,

The befriender.

Who were you?

So furiously standing alone,

Yet
So desperately wishing someone would hold you,
stroke your hair, and tell you it would get better.

I see myself in you.
I love you, with my voice, my soul.
You still wear that nightgown,
but you have long since shed that skin.

(Published in the Matrix Feminist Literary Magazine 2009)

Pretentious Bitch

I love the sound of my own voice
step aside, get behind
get below me
increase the power
tone, volume, inflection,
remove the filter
and let it all pour out.

 

I would like to see
you
try and stop
me.
I love myself now
so much so
I like my strut, my gut,
My hands, plans,
My smarts, stupids, and the in-betweens.

My mind is my closest companion,
my ego my cockiest friend.

What more do I need,
your sorrowful plead,
So I can make the same mistake again?

No. I can choose now.

“On Written Knowledge”

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(Continuation of “On the Writing Process”)

Writing knowledge. Knowledge of writing. Writing about Knowledge. Knowing how to write. Wait, I think the last one is different. Knowledge: (n.) “Information and skills acquired through experience or education; the theoretical or practical understanding of a subject” (Webster’s Dictionary). Hmm, perhaps the last one is not so different. I know that I have gone through the drills and learned the skills but it didn’t teach me how to write. So what did? Who did? Is it Experience with a capital “E”? Education often fell back into the skills and drills category. So where did it come from? Did I have some kind of epiphany? No, my brain doesn’t work like that. It’s a beaten beast that acquires knowledge from hard work and aggressive determination. If some kind of holy evangelic light did appear, it would wonder where the hell it came from and whether or not a glare was a trustworthy source of information.

“On the Writing Process”

(Continuation of “On Writing in Iran”)

One English teacher told me that writing was a process and everyone’s process was different. I laughed. A process? Ha! It’s more like a Pollack. Throw it on the ground and get mad. Maybe get a little drunk. Fling some ideas onto it and see what splatters, what oozes, what drips right off the canvas. Look at it closely and get a little paint on the tip of your nose. Then realize that your looking at abstraction and step back in exhaustion. Only to realize that amongst the chaos, you created a fractal.

A.Sadeghipour.Cursive.jpgI once got into a fight with my ex over cursive. He didn’t understand why they still taught cursive when all assignments could be typed up. He didn’t understand why people wouldn’t print legibly instead of writing in doodles. He just didn’t understand that without this physical representation of my swirly, compacted, blending letters, I would be voiceless. I have to see myself on paper. I have to be reminded of my home language. I have to feel my thoughts transition from some metaphysical brain plane to a visually jumbled blue inked representation. I have to see my thoughts in my writing.

And now, it is so strange to say, that I am approaching the end of my path. I look back on the moments that hurt me the most. Pain is a cruel teacher. But, I learned from those scars and calluses and I think to myself, “Maybe it was a dangerous mistake to put a pen in my hand. To leave me with the words I knew how to use but not why to use them. Because I remember them and my needle draws blood from black and blue.” You and I have made me the writer that I am.

(Continued in “On Written Knowledge”)

“On Writing in Iran”

(Continuation of “On Writing”)

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The callus had formed a long time ago having never had the opportunity to heal. The pressure of every pen and pencil. The physical presence of every written assignment embedded into a small hard mound on my middle finger. In Iran, my teacher believed that the best way to learn a language and to learn how to write was to copy a text of high spiritual and scholarly merit verbatim. In essence, the only work that could adhere to such a high caliber was the Koran. I learned three things from that experience. First, Farsi. Second, that verbose metaphoric language, as depicted in the Koran, has no place in academia. And third, that I knew that seven seater dinning room table and dimly lit chandelier better than anyone. After getting home in the evening, by a taxi driver who would always drop me off last and honk violently at the gate for my father to come down and pay him, I sat at that dinning room table copying line after line of the Holy Book until 2, sometimes 3, sometimes 4 in the morning before going to bed only to be woken up 4, sometimes 3, sometimes 2 hours later to go to school. At school, the teacher didn’t like me because I asked too many questions and I didn’t understand how. The students didn’t like me because I was the American who thought she was entitled to the answers to her questions. The students who were kind enough to help me would often grow frustrated  and walk away exhausted because after answering the how, I would always ask why. Eventually, I just stopped asking questions until the ninth grade when, back in America, a teacher wrote two fateful words on my paper, “How so?”

jun13480In Iran, I realized that my education was entirely my own and that if I wanted to advance, I would have to do so on my own. I would stay up late doing drills, completing workbooks, copying the Koran a hundred times until I could actually understand the words that I had written and what they meant together. I felt like a manufacturing line producing and fixing components but unable to see the whole. Unable to understand how everything fit together. But this did not teach me how to write, it taught me how to copy. This experience taught me how to regurgitate someone else’s thoughts which I completely disagreed with and even though I understood the how, the rules and grammatical regulations that held the language together, I still did not understand the why. It wasn’t until I was introduced to the why that these dead words on a page began to take on a new meaning. I now understood that I was establishing my foundation. I was establishing a solid set of rules, techniques, and strategies that would allow me to progress forward. Now, I could either build up my foundation further, jump off of it, or tear the whole thing down. The third one seemed less useful, so I decided to go with the first two

(Continued in “On the Writing Process”).