Murna

When I heard it the first time, it was so ridiculous in its horrendous intensity that I thought it was one of those carry-over April Fool jokes comedians like to play on the all too willing public. But my wishy-washy thoughts were cleared when I saw it on BBC; they weren’t obliged to propagate our national jokes. I know what everyone thinks; it’s what everyone is supposed to think: this is outrageously cruel.

When I cuddle this baby and give her suck it’s never occurred to me that anything at all can sour what I feel for her, what my tingly-achy nipples familiar with the sensation of her soft, hungry tongue secret into both our hearts, what my sneaky tears of fierce joy tell – not just to her, but much more to me. Those dreams I had as a young woman full of hopes and promise, imagining the world was all this while waiting for me, I have transfused to her. She ought to fly high and if nothing like that happens, I sincerely desire that she leaps at least.

Murna – my joy. And why not? Haven’t I cried enough, prayed enough, wished enough, waited enough to have someone like that? Someone grown out of me, my fruit, my sprout, me in another body? Well, if he doesn’t feel the same about her, it doesn’t change how I feel. Feel.  It’s become a word I’m ashamed to use. They say I feel because I’m a woman, feeling  is the weakness of women. But knowing, being, that’s the character of a man.

I know I can’t stand the sound of bomb blasts, I can’t stand the commotion of public panic, the stampede of aimless and confused feet, rushing at every direction. I can’t stand it when people say or think that another’s blood is not red enough, does not smell like blood enough.

Starting Now

This is a new project begun today the 22nd of August 2016. You’re welcome to gazellicia.com, where feelings are not hidden away like shameful things, or run away from like monstrous things, but are expressed as the true things they are and confronted for the real things they are.

It’s very common to find that what you feel at a particular moment cannot be given a name. Sometimes it’s neither pain nor anger, neither loss nor grief, neither love nor laughter, neither hope nor despair. Sometimes it’s idle rest, sometimes it’s somnambulist inertia, sometimes it’s plain old emptiness.

So starting now, I understand. I understand in poetry, I understand in fiction, I understand in a myriad of artful analogies. On gazellicia.com, you can come and find everyday the musings of a kindred spirit.