Those Who Dance-a ghazal
Those Who Dance</i>
To the tune of cooking popcorn, dancing,
never minding other's scorn, dancing
Singing through the noise of the washing machine,
as it tumbles their few rags, worn, dancing
Each loves all others,
even if they are, to a different horn, dancing
many of them have died,
but they know their dead are, without mourn, dancing.
As I stand in church, I am teleported back in time. I am in this same spot, in this same pew, smaller, only three years old. I am standing in a forest of nylon coated legs. All I hear is singing and chanting. All I know is this moment. I feel thirst. I tell my grandmother, and she says we'll get soda later. I don't remember later, only then, a bizarre, unconnected moment in time.
Last year, a boy in our class took his life. The shock when we found out rested over everything. I wanted to forget that day, to repress it, to never rexperience the sadness and pain. For months late at night, as my thoughts unraveled, I always came back to it, like a loose end, eventually almost forgotten.
As I wait for my ride from school almost a year later, I see him come out of a car, living, smiling. The moment before I call out his name, my heart
What Happened to the Real World?</i>
A month ago, I picked up my camera, and photographed paradise. I photographed flowers, trees, sandy beaches, and grassy fields. I showed my family a world of perfection and beauty.
They loved it.
Today, I decided to photograph our house, the reality I live in, the things we see everyday. Computer desks, unmade beds, shelves of disordered books, a world made of steel, plastic, and mess were all in the pictures.
No one liked it. Everyone would rather see a beautiful lie than a disheveled, but still lovely, truth.
Let me take you back to a bitter February night. February can be an awful time. As the snow first begins to melt, it gets everyone's hopes up. Maybe the winter has finally ended. The snow slowly recedes, turning to crisp gray scabs of ice on the front lawn, b