I Wish I Was a Morning Person

When all seemed well, I stepped out.  The sunrise a bleach streak of exalted non-yellow.  ‘Twas not a normal Sunday.  I, gauche femme, frostbitten, fingerless mitten.  When the mind is loquacious.  Then pauses to drench.  Quiet jives.  Time is a slipstream.  Rendered lucid in the giddy light.  Karma’s overgrown hair blowing into spring.  A familial scattering.  And here I land – pop! – in a gasp of winter sun.  Homeland.  In motion.  But. Waiting for a bus.  Clashing colours.  Empty stomach.  Sleep-deprived.  And always, always just a little bit late.  

_{^{© N Nazir 2023}}

Written for Shay’s Word Garden where Shay brings us inspiration with William Wordsworth (words used: yellow, lucid, overgrown).

Written also for Sammi Scribbles Weekend Writing Prompt: loquacious, 88 words.

Stream of Consciousness II

Divorcee. What a funny label. I have divorced myself from matrimony. I am matrimonially removed. Keep your ring finger away from me. You won’t take me up the aisle. I don’t care how big your rocks are. Let’s play a game of truth or dare and let it play out to a good ripe conclusion. That would get my rocks off. So would a party that breaks all the rules, it would be just the tonic everyone needs. A celebration that spits in the face of tradition and makes a ceremony of the ridiculous. Where both prim and proper and coarse and obscene must reside as neighbours, for the party is always so much better when the prim and proper are there to shock. Send me an invite or I will gatecrash anyway.

The Kama Sutra of kissing. Even if you wrote a book about it, it can’t be taught. It’s sensuality and artistry and timing and taste and all kinds of other things in between.

* * *

The winner takes it all. But when they lose, the thing they lose really hurts. Or it hurts them that everyone else loses because of them.

Why do people eat shark’s fin? What is it about the fin? Those motherfuckers need to leave sharks alone.

I don’t go for blonds. Or brunettes. Or redheads. I don’t have a type. It’s something that shines outward I go for. I can’t explain it. Something sparkly when the light catches their eyelashes or something. It’s an essence or a spice. Like coriander or lemongrass. Subtle, sharp, pervasive, perfumed. All that and more.

Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

* * *

Who says meal worms can’t climb out of their bowl? They’re desperate to be a new thing, not just fodder for the dragons. But the blind lazy ones don’t mind being food, because the dragons need to bloom. Their warm chubby bellies as they wriggle up your forearm. Their bright little eyes as they regard you sideways and lick you for recognition. Their sharp little spikes and darkening scales when they get annoyed. Melt. Dragons are love.

I can feel the whispering ghost of winter’s beauty in the air even though summer hasn’t yet grown ripe. I love winter’s whispering beauty, it always comes upon me at this time of year. It hints at something intimate and loving just out of reach but attainable at a given time. The ghost of this wish has always been with me. It excites me and I have no idea why.

You need to deal out a different medicine for different people. They all require an individual remedy. Some need to swallow their own bitter pill to meet the transformation they are so ardently seeking.

© N Nazir 2020

*photos taken from i-stock and film stills off the internet

The text to each image is deliberately jumbled up so you have to piece it together at the end. I don’t know why I chose to do it that way, it just felt right.

Stream of Consciousness IV

Scribbling, scrawling, all the notions, write them down, all the ideas spilling, ink flowing, scribblicious, gestural, animation, intelligence, time spent feministing. I step forward and make it up as I go along because there is no time to waste planning, planning assumes forgone conclusions that may never be, merely projections, meaning nothing once imagined, just do, do, just do what needs doing, get it done, just do it….

…because there are good things, the sweet things, all the bright and brilliant things, things that demand a name, a huge feeling not contained, things from another realm not known here so what do we call them? they have a language we can’t speak until we have walked the world, and I kiss the mantle of the art I miss, that like a slinky shadow withdraws, draws me after it, not so dark that I can’t see but dark enough to be mystery, and I love the comfort of the women who surround and commune and just know what you mean without explaining, the beautiful women, the hugs-like-an-ocean women, the neon-haired women, the eyelashed women, the red-lipped soft-hearted divas of understanding and evenings like a warm intelligence and wine and time spent feministing…

_{Untitled, N. Nazir, digital photograph, 2019}

© N Nazir, 2019

Stream of Consciousness III

I swarm into the undergrowth and hunt with stealth though I know not what I am, I’m crawling on underbelly and I can taste all the smells in the air. I’m a she-thing and I’m hungry, maybe I’m a swamp thing, in muddy shades of green, perfectly camouflaged, effortlessly predatory. Vibrations stir my shackles and I feel thrills at imminent kill and bodily relish.

I’m a thing that contains human emotions so giant I wonder how they are contained so well in this compact little frame, so many nerve endings tassellate this way and that, stirred by the wind of others impulse, inertia makes me wait for the right moment to act, calm for the right thoughts to guide. Wind soothing, wet earth smell so good and clean, like a hearty mud bath. Wilful design, elegant remains, pretty flowers growing out of my belly like a South American goddess in a shrine, beholden. She is inert but she sends the wind to do her bidding and sings a soft song like electricity to the mountains whose gulls send her message further on across the water and along sun rays, and there’s no need to move when all is one and everything stirs smiling with the same knowledge.

Bring me the I Ching and with great willing I’ll sing the song of the ancients, the elephants, elephant song, it’s been so long, a long song, a belong song, a strong gong song, not tired, just waiting, millennia in the blink of an eye, a full breath, excited gasp, lifetimes spinning, illuminated in the starscape that waits for another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another and another….until all are one constellation.

Super Blood Wolf Moon lunar eclipse, (c) N. Nazir, Digital Photograph, 2019

(c) N. Nazir 2019

Stream of Consciousness II

Divorcee.  What a funny label.  I have divorced myself from matrimony.  I am matrimonially removed.  Keep your ring finger away from me.  You won’t take me up the aisle.  I don’t care how big your rocks are.  Let’s play a game of truth or dare and let it play out to a good ripe conclusion.  That would get my rocks off.  So would a party that breaks all the rules, it would be just the tonic everyone needs.  A celebration that spits in the face of tradition and makes a ceremony of the ridiculous.  Where both prim and proper and coarse and obscene must reside as neighbours, for the party is always so much better when the prim and proper are there to shock.  Send me an invite or I will gatecrash anyway.

The Kama Sutra of kissing.  Even if you wrote a book about it, it can’t be taught.  It’s sensuality and artistry and timing and taste and all kinds of other things in between.

* * *

The winner takes it all.  But when they lose, the thing they lose really hurts.  Or it hurts them that everyone else loses because of them.

Why do people eat shark’s fin?  What is it about the fin?  Those motherfuckers need to leave sharks alone.

I don’t go for blonds.  Or brunettes.  Or redheads.  I don’t have a type.  It’s something that shines outward I go for.  I can’t explain it.  Something sparkly when the light catches their eyelashes or something.  It’s an essence or a spice.  Like coriander or lemongrass.  Subtle, sharp, pervasive, perfumed.  All that and more.

Hast thou the flower there?  Welcome, wanderer.

* * *

Who says meal worms can’t climb out of their bowl?  They’re desperate to be a new thing, not just fodder for the dragons.  But the blind lazy ones don’t mind being food, because the dragons need to bloom.  Their warm chubby bellies as they wriggle up your forearm.  Their bright little eyes as they regard you sideways and lick you for recognition.  Their sharp little spikes and darkening scales when they get annoyed.  Melt.  Dragons are love.

I can feel the whispering ghost of winter’s beauty in the air even though summer hasn’t yet grown ripe.  I love winter’s whispering beauty, it always comes upon me at this time of year.  It hints at something intimate and loving just out of reach but attainable at a given time.  The ghost of this wish has always been with me.  It excites me and I have no idea why.

You need to deal out a different medicine for different people.  They all require an individual remedy.  Some need to swallow their own bitter pill to meet the transformation they are so ardently seeking.

^{© N Nazir 2016}