Déjà Vu

My Dad wasn’t the most talkative person. When he and Ricki, my step-mother, separated, our meals at the dinner table would be anything but gregarious. During most dinners neither of us would utter a word. Looking back I don’t think I made it easy for him. Although, don’t we all when we’re going through teenage angst? During high school I was a brooding teenager who moped around the halls with head held down and hands tucked in pockets. I’d come home from school, go straight to my room, shut the door, escape to my cd collection, come out for dinner, then head back to my room and close the door behind me. My self-imposed exile to my room was largely consequential of my penchant for solitude and meticulous self scrutiny. In isolation, I would observe my actions, thoughts, desires, hopes and fears. Even on a packed bus or a bustling street I would withdraw from my surroundings and climb the inner synaptic walls of my narcissistic neurosis. If I was asked how my day at school was, I replied “Fine.” And if I was asked what I did or what I had learned, I’d say “Nothing.” My withdrawn silence used to drive Ricki up the wall. She would say “Really? You did nothing? So you just sat at the desk and did absolutely nothing all day?” To which I’d respond with a scowling glare.

Today, I’m still fond of the occasional brooding days. I’m unsure of what provokes these pensive moods. The weather, olfactory memories and certain songs will put me in an introspective state. Rainy days always put me in a reflective mood. I think mostly due to the fact that the rain forces me indoors. If you’re staring out the window and all you see is grey skies and colourless puddles, how can you not be put into a state of melancholy? Vancouver is notorious for this kind of weather so it isn’t uncommon to find yourself arrested in a brooding mood for a whole week. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’m gloomy for a week. I actually enjoy brooding now and then. I get to catch up on all my deep thinking.

I think my olfactory moments are closely tied with déjà vu experiences. A certain smell, or even a particular sound will remind me of something from the past. It could be at the most unexpected moment too. It could be the way the morning mist smells on a particular day, or the song of a bird chirping away outside, or even insignificant background noise. I’ll pause at these moments and reflect. Sometimes I feel it reminds me of something from my past but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Very déjà vu at times.

Sometimes songs invoke certain memories and feelings that can be even more tangible than physical stimuli. Depressing songs affect me the most too but they don’t define me. I’m not a dark person – although I’m sure this post is painting me in that light – but I would say I’m very sentimental. When I was younger, my Dad used to frequently go on trips and be away for months at a time. I remember one day, he was going on an overseas trip and I was playing his Annie Lennox cd (“Medusa”) in my room. I didn’t change the cd in the stereo the entire two months he was gone because I didn’t want to forget the day he had left. This probably sounds strange, as I was already in grade 9 at the time. To this day when I hear a song from that album, I always think about that memory. I suppose this partly explains why sad songs affect me in ways that happy songs cannot.

Note: Certain prose and poetry can also put me into deep thought, but I think that subject deserves its own post. For another day.

Even Hercules was Mortal

As a child I looked up to my Dad on the same plane as a King or Hercules. He was my hero. “My Dad could beat up your Dad” was something I’d often tout to my friends. Sadly, as I grew older, it seemed my Dad went from an invincible, mythologized figure to a middle aged man who suffers the same problems like all other mere mortals. I’d say my respect for him went down, as did my confidence in myself. In a way, his failures became my worst fears. Through his experiences I saw dreams made, and while some were achieved, some weren’t, and some were lost. I guess it was a humbling realization. It may sound depressing but I don’t see it in that way. No, I’m not a downer. I’m aware I’m sounding like some miserable nihilist at the moment. But I’m definitely not. I’ve always had this belief that I am capable of making things right or that even if things don’t look great at the moment I somehow always land on both feet. Not to say that things will land on my lap out of nowhere. Anything that I have achieved or hope to ever achieve has, and will always, come through hard work. I guess what I’m trying to say is that as a kid, I imagined my Dad as this larger-than-life figure who had all the answers in life and was never scared of anything. But as I grew older I realized he was only human like the rest of us and he too has his fair share of fears. Yet, I actually find it reassuring to realize he doesn’t have all the answers, and that actually, nobody does, so I don’t feel quite alone. Despite all this, I still look up to him and have respect for him and learn from him. But, I find I learn more from his mistakes and failures than anything else. That’s just how I see things in all aspects of life. Perhaps that explains why I like reading about people who endured impoverished and unfortunate circumstances. I expect to learn more from stories of those who overcome adversity.

Arabic Skies

My spongy hands dig deep into the damp, grassy field. My legs are planted in an up-right position, ready to pounce at any notice. My eyes shift towards the man to my right, also firmly entrenched in a position of alertness. “Ready.. Steady.. Go!” he shouts out loud. My heartbeat flutters, as do my legs, which rise three feet into the air. Like a racehorse released from its cage, I launch with a powerful burst of force akin to that of an Olympic athlete. The terrain feels like sponge cake as my feet dart across its auspice plain. I see the sinewed shape of his back ahead of me. I am in awe over the rapid, swift strides he takes with ease. I summon every ounce of energy within my tiny, elastic body as I eye the finish line twenty strides ahead. My breath turns into a deep hoarse pant, my lungs expand, stealing as much air as they possibly can. My legs grow lighter and my arms flail up and down without any thought from my brain. My body is instinctively using every filament within its limbs, blood vessels, organs and sinew to rush forward to the finish line. No brain activity is required. The heart simply understands my will and forces my legs forth with a passionate, persuasive push. I look to my right and my body is now horizontally even with his. Less than ten paces from the finish line. My body starts to gain distance from his. I am winning, I think to myself. With little breath left in me, I begin to laugh. My body is weightless. He smiles as he crosses the finish line behind me. My legs flop onto the ground beneath me. The cool wetness of the grass welcomes me. I look up and watch the mist smear the purple sky. The sun is beginning to rise to the east. Strange sounds from afar can be heard. No words are exchanged between my father and I. None are needed. Heads leaned back, we lay sprawled on earth and laugh like Kings. Our bodies take in the magnetic morning and our eyes are drawn to the masterfully arranged Arabic sky. The year is 1989. We are in Cairo, Egypt.