Love through eclectic choices

 

The first time I saw him
The pull was magnetic and his nature enigmatic
A dilemma, an almost delusional reality
He was, to state it simply, the ne ultra of masculinity.
Every girl hopes for her Cinderella moment, where she look down at the hero from a top of a staircase as he look up to her with complete fascination and adoration.
Eyes locking, secrets transpiring, gazes lingering, moments forming
My scenario was somehow askew,
The escalators crosses path as he leisurely turned the pages of his tattered copy of “Les Misérables”.
And I was left with the realization that I envy an orphaned child
For she had the undivided attention of my beloved.
“They interpenetrated, they enchanted, they dazzled each other.” I thought, as I trace the fragments of those few seconds;
I recall the way his hair fell in his eyes and admired his aloofness.
I thought of his tailored, black overcoat and deduce his debonair nature.
I draw a comparison between him and Enjolras and swoon over his courageous character. 
So the first time I saw him, I was intrigued.

The second time I saw him
I tried to saunter by with a faked grace though he didn’t spare me a glance.
His dark head was bent over a sketch book.
Dazed…. I was rooted in one place while my eyes follow the outline of his unfinished work,
How his charcoal smeared fingers delineate a classic furiously
Making sharp lines and sensual curves 
“Of psyche revived by Cupid’s kiss”
As I walk away my mind wandered back to those few moments;
From the curves and lines I saw a contradiction.
I translate his features, furrowed brows and pursed lips, as true dedication.
I imagine him looking at a Canova and swoon over his sensual yet fragile soul of an artist.
So the second time I saw him, I was infatuated. 

The first time our gazes lock
I frequent quaint cafes with retro decors
Funky interiors that I can color-block with my patterned skirts
With their mismatched furniture like my ensemble; combat boots and bead necklaces.
So I was standing in line waiting for my plain vanilla cappuccino when a smooth voice to my right says
“Can I have a Guillermo?”
The voice clarifies, “Two shots of hot espresso over slices of lime and a touch of milk.”
He ended his order with a slight smirk. 
I stared unabashedly, studying his profile and our gazes lock.
While my eyes were dancing, his were bleak. 
I was shocked for a while, maybe a tad bit disappointed,
For his eyes oppose the perfection that I conjure in my mind.
As I walk away with coffee in hand, I reply that instant;
I heard his voice all over again and surmise a calm behavior
His coffee order was his way of telling me his idiosyncratic psyche
His playfulness is hinted by that lingering smirk
But his eyes? That I couldn’t fathom.
So the first time our gazes lock, I was equal parts entranced and perplexed.

The first time I felt his pain
I was sitting in a shuttle and he occupies the seat next to me
Suddenly I was hyper-aware of my surrounding;
How his boots are scuffed
The callous fingers drumming a rhythm on his thighs
The scar that runs from his left eye brow to his ear marring his rather flawless skin
The sad notes of “Dido’s Lament” coming from his headphone
When I get off at my stop my observance was different;
His scuffed boots and calloused fingers are reflection of a strenuous life
The scar marring his face is no comparison to the one engraved on his soul
I wonder if he can relate more to Dido or Aeneas and concluded that both are in a way dreadful.
He is either cruel enough to abandon his lover or heartbroken and bemoaning on his death bed.
So the first time I felt his pain, my own heart bled.

The first time we talked
My Saturday nights are for Spoken words.
As my colleagues enjoy happy hour and tequila shots I enjoy the words of the Bronte sisters.
So I stood on a stage voicing my feelings and my inner desires. 
When I stepped down, he took my place and the bright spotlight illuminated his face. 
His flaws were bare for all to see.
The dark circles beneath his eyes and the slight hollow of his cheeks. 
And he said out loud still keeping his gaze on me but with lips slightly trembling,
“But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered-
Till I scarcely more than muttered, ‘other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’ ”
My heart cracks as I stared at his exposed vulnerability;
Circles and hollows echoing sleepless nights and a haunted past.
His whispered words speaking to me of unsure future and a veiled fear.
I wonder if Allen Poe’s narrator was a replica of the man on the stand.
So the first time we talked, I realize that he was flawed.

The first time he seeks comfort
When I am bothered I take a stroll on the bank of the Hudson or head to the MET.
On that particular Sunday my choice was the latter.
“You are the Spoken words girl.” the same smooth voice says. 
“And you are the Guillermo guy” I replied.
We stared at the work displayed before us, it was a Gérôme piece. We studied it for a while and then he asked, “How come Pygmalion became such a lucky bastard?”
I laughed but masked my features as I looked up at him. I remembered those past moments, how my perception of him has slowly altered. 
“Perfection is a notional concept. I think we are all broken pieces glued inharmoniously.” he continued.
I gave him a reassuring smile and for once I decided to be honest. 
“The first time I saw you, I saw the perfect piece and in time I discovered your jagged edge.”
So the first time he seeks comfort, I admitted that my Galatea was scarred.
~Iman. M. Abdulkadir
Illustration by Salvador Dali (Galatea of the Spheres)

The most real lady of them all

Head held high, spine straight, chest out, slight sway of the hips and controlled steps, going through life all poised and suave. A real lady doesn’t stumble or fall and paves on the road are rather mythical in her existence. Lesson number one, darling; once you fall they would rather stomp on you than give you a hand.

Adorned by minimum jewel, a single love lock tiffany bracelet, a rose gold and Morganite earrings or simple freshwater pearls. A real lady has no time for too much sparkle or a bling. You are neither a rundown b-list actress with a Botox job gone wrong nor an aspiring rapper from the Harlem with a harem of women. Lesson number two, angel; a real lady has the spotlight on her without being the spotlight. If you shine too much then your man will be left in the shadows. He won’t be fond of that now, will he?

Keep your color pallet to minimum and the prints to polka dots. Navy is too masculine and fuchsia is nauseating. Exchange your spandex to yoga pants, you aren’t the singing men in the subway. Own multiple Juicy couture tracksuits for your morning runs, leave the solid colour nails to the high school cheerleaders and the neighbourhood pariahs, adopt nude nails instead. A real lady should be presentable at any time of the day in any setting and scenario. A slight wrinkle and you will portray yourself as lousy. Lesson number three, sweetheart; they might share the same first letter but lady and lousy are universes apart.

Put your bleached blonde hair in an updo. Why blonde you asked? A brunette is either a bore or miss-goody-two-shoes and a redhead creates a riot. A lady is neither, she entertains when needed and be mischievous once in a while without crossing the lines. So drop the brunette personae and embrace the blonde or even dye your hair black. A real lady is either a Monroe or a Taylor, no middle ground there. You never let your hair down, that will cover your prominent features. If you are tending to your kids, it should be a tight ponytail and if it’s your guests or your man, it should be an updo. Lesson number four, lover; a real lady don’t run around tucking a strand. That is both inconvenient and a habit to be frowned upon.

Your closet is not complete without a pair of Manolo Blahnik satin pumps or a set of Jimmy Choo slingbacks. You can attain an extra sway to the hips only through heels. A real lady just doesn’t own the heels but also walk on the sidewalks of the suburbs as if she is on the runway of fashion week, giving an imperious smile for those who look up to her and pity eyes for those who couldn’t master the walk yet. Ballet flats are so elementary and a tad bit comfortable. Lesson number five honey; comfort is the first step in being plain.

Have a pleasant chit chat with your man associates and their significant others. Mrs. Erikson is oblivious to Mr. Erikson’s infidelity? The recently widowed Ms. Hart is the residence’s Mrs. Robinson? Save these topics for your day at the salon with Marco the hairdresser or your late afternoon tea with Martha the housewife. A real lady can entertain her guests without bringing up a scandal. Lesson number six, dear; you don’t need an eloquent speech to be a conversationalist. Actually, you don’t need to spew your opinions, you keep them to yourself while listening to the others. You are hosting a gala or a ball not a high school debate. A dramatic gasp here, a slight smile there, a “How dreadful!” while discussing the falling stock market and a “How fabulous!” while discussing the Pomeranian puppy that the Erikson’s adopt will suffice.

Detached, cool, unaffected but a bit amused, as if life is whimsical or there is an inside joke that no one is privy to. It will add to your mystery factor. Never let them see you sweat; both literally and figuratively. Either the crow’s feet and the wrinkles that come from a sincere smile or the line of a frown is never a good look. A real lady avoids the blotchy face and the puffy eyes at any cost, even if the price is being callous. Keep your emotions at bay, you are neither a sentimental artist in Basel nor are you a character from ‘La Boheme’. Lesson number seven, sweet chucks; a real lady is an enigma and displaying myriad of emotions is not a way to achieve that.

-Iman. M.A
Illustrations by: Bara Prasilova

Drum Roll

Tick tock…Tick tock…
The second hand crawls by
open…close…blink and blink
raging storm in his eye
Lean…withdraw…lean again
lust ignites laced with hope
A sigh…a moan…a repressed groan
time ceases as heartbeats stop.

-Iman. A
(Art work: Rene Magritte, The Lovers)

Illustrations 1: Yard With Lunatics

The sun blazes and burns bright

To engulf the dark and give the light

As if to enlighten, as if to lit

To out power, to clear the mist

But……

Instead the sun reveals

fantasy of utter darkness

A nightmare of total “locos”

full oh haunted, taunted faces.

“Yard with Lunatics” also known as “Corrol de Locos” in Spanish is one of the most prominent paintings of Francisco Goya. Since, this work explains a state of human nature related with a dwindling mental health it has the power of gripping the viewer.