余震 Yoshin (Aftershock)

trust me, i moved on
ran from the epicenter
my heart, ground zero

but i must admit
inside every pitch-black room
i can still feel you

i hate that it's true
but you were a favorite muse
there lies the fault-line

global identity

"I am American mentally with Japanese tendencies/Parisian sensibility..."

Lupe Fiasco, "Gold Watch"

sometimes i still face disappointment at not being able to trace my roots back a certain distance.  my heritage gets lost somewhere in the Middle Passage, and that's hard to come to grips with, especially when you're part of the "most diverse class that Vanderbilt Medical School's ever had" (we've been branded) and everywhere you turn you see someone who has a list of countries of origin ready for recitation.

but i'm realizing more and more each day that i'm actually a bit of a cultural anomaly.  apparently i could pass for Ethiopian, Jamaican, or Trini appearance-wise, depending on who you talk to.  i have a bit of a (potentially superficial) love affair with East Asian culture (especially Japanese food.  nom), and with music in languages i don't understand (Ivy Queen, Buraka Som Sistema, and Utada are probably somewhere among my top played).  and i've been dubbed a "wannabe Caribbean"; the not-so-secret desire to learn Patois, fry plantains, and dance to every riddim under the summer sun probably has something to do with that.

in one sense, all that i am able to claim is a nebulous sense of blackness.

in another sense, i am a multicultural phenomenon without even trying.

(excuse any awkward phrasing and the plethora of parenthetical statements...i was procrastinating last night when i wrote this)

Kaleidoscope: Author's Update

This project will pretty much have to be put on hold.

I expected this to happen.  In theory a weekly update sounds feasible.  In practice it's nearly impossible, what with lecture notes to study, bills to pay, and parties to crash.

Add this to the fact that my creative juices have all but dried up again and you have one very sad (and parched) camper.

From now on if I happen to finish a chapter I'll post it on the following Monday, just to give a bit of continuity to the whole thing.  So you'll just have to check back weekly to see if I've got anything new.

In the meantime, feel free to read and critique the 8 chapters that I cranked out.

Apologies for my lack of artistic consistency,

3Ni 

soundscape

sirens

crickets

adhan

reggaeton

the steady 

trickle

of distant traffic

a/c hum

tv murmurs

male voices in an alley

the groan of

an old 

washing machine

~Roxbury, Boston, MA~

Kaleidoscope, Ch. 8

When Serenity opened her eyes, she felt that she was still caught in some preposterous nightmare.

            Every light in her room was flickering, as if someone were playing with the power switches.  Even the television in the corner was rhythmically flashing on and off of its own volition.  Filling the air was an incessant buzzing combined with a noise that resembled the chirps of hundreds of angry birds.  The whole room felt alive with electricity.

            She happened to look down at herself and noticed blue-white bolts coming from her body.  The tendrils of energy snaked in all directions, their tips orange where they touched other objects.

            Before she could attempt to make sense of what she saw, an image of her dream-father killing her dream-mother thundered through her mind.  She was barely aware of her hands trembling; whether it was from fear or from the Spirit energy coursing through her body was anyone’s guess.

            Through Serenity’s confused terror, she noticed that Botan was standing in the hallway, peeking behind the bedroom door.  She heard Botan yell her name over the chirp-buzz of the electricity but did not respond. 

A scream escaped her lips as fragments of the dream once again assaulted her psyche.

Serenity’s body continued to shake.  She was now staring at her quivering hands without really seeing them, barely breathing, unable to speak, unaware of her surroundings.  She was no longer cognizant of the passage of time; if minutes or even hours had elapsed since she had first shot up in bed, she could not tell.  The only thoughts that permeated her sudden numbness of being were those pertaining to dream-Hijo and dream-Kasumi.  The image of Hijo winking before snapping Kasumi’s neck played repeatedly in her mind.  It was as if she had been strapped down in a chair and forced to watch a film starring her deepest fears.

Between the violent flashes from her dream, Serenity slowly became aware of a curious presence in her mind.  When another afterimage of Hijo and Kasumi tried to tear at her consciousness, a wave of calm began to wash over her.  The unknown mental presence seemed to be fighting off the malignant phantasms, something that Serenity had been unable to do herself.  A voice whispered her name, over and over again, inside her mind.  The voice persisted until the memories of Serenity’s nightmare were drowned out by its gentle but unwavering confidence.

Soon, Serenity’s focus returned.  Her body no longer felt dangerously alive with electricity.  She looked down at her hands again, studying the lines in her palms intently, before taking a glance around the room.  Nothing in the room had been severely damaged, though the television and the lights were now all turned on.

Suddenly, she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.  She looked up to see Amake standing over her and uttered a choked sob, wrapping her arms around his waist.  Her eyes changed to light blue as tears rolled freely down her cheeks.  She barely noticed when Botan joined her on the bed and started to smooth her hair. 

Botan and Amake held her close while the sky began to brighten.  News anchors on the television were just beginning an early morning broadcast.