Shoulder exposed beside a
Fallen green strap,
Cold grimace reflected in the
Rain splattered window
As lighting splits the sky,
Holding weak blues captive
As they tire into the night
A frigid lullaby echoing through the
Hallow, ceramic halls
Beckons youthful curiosity forth
To wander as the older sleep,
Curled into their jackets like cocoons,
As shuffled melodies provoke
My forgotten memories,
Rising and falling in the back of my throat
Like a dice game of emotional gag,
A poetic vulnerability unveiled
In the fresh hours just before the light
Before the flickering eyes of strangers
Awake to their harsher selves
And the resonating smell
Of airport coffee
(Written at the Washington D.C. airport on the way to Ghana; re-shared 10 days from departure.)
I have had various outfits sewn by local seamstresses throughout the semester. Here is a sampling of my new Ghanaian wardrobe (ignore the Ghana gut):
In the midst of realizing my day's worth of documentary footage was corrupted and useless, I found a nickel. I held it in the palm of my hand, went to the bathroom, and cried.
Happy Thanksgiving. There is nothing like the holidays to remind you that you're not home. I miss everything: Chattanooga, my quirky family and pseudo family, my dad's raunchy jokes at the dinner table, the dorky, floral wallpaper in the dining room, chips and queso from Taco Mac, freshly ironed tablecloths, blue vases, cheese plates and (apparently) nickels.
I miss New York too. I miss Thursday nights, $2.50 falafels at Mamouns, discounted drinks at the Thirsty Scholar, chicken, lamb and rice smothered in white sauce from the 53rd and Lex street cart, dollar pizza, late night Taco Bell in Union Square and Jamaican hookah bars.
We will be celebrating an American Thanksgiving dinner tonight with NYU. We'll have turkey, macaroni and cheese and good music. And my food coma will certainly change my momentarily panicky desire for home. But for now, I think I'll hold onto my nickel and sulk.