Afghani woman on self immolation

"Don't burn yourself," she said, lying on her hospital bed. "If you want a way out, use a gun: it's less painful."

from here

One of my roomies was signing up to see a shrink. So they asked her a few questions to match her up with someone suitable. They asked, of course, "Do you have thoughts of suicide?" And my roomie told me that she was shocked. Suicide is not even an option, she said.

It's one thing to think suicide is not an option. It's another thing to understand how it would seem like an option to some hypothetical body. It's a third stance to consider it for yourself day in and day out, or maybe late at night when considering what you should do tomorrow. C is not healthy I gather. Is option B toeing the line? And what about that afghani woman? Is there a difference between suicide from depression and suicide as the last and only act of independence?

Either way, sounds like it hurts. BTW I am reading Sylvia Plath.

P.S. Do Jamaicans commit suicide?

Hipsters, be free!!

"The dance floor at a hipster party looks like it should be surrounded by
quotation marks. While punk, disco and hip hop all had immersive, intimate and
energetic dance styles that liberated the dancer from his/her mental states – be
it the head-spinning b-boy or violent thrashings of a live punk show – the
hipster has more of a joke dance. A faux shrug shuffle that mocks the very idea
of dancing or, at its best, illustrates a non-committal fear of expression
typified in a weird twitch/ironic twist. The dancers are too self-aware to let
themselves feel any form of liberation; they shuffle along, shrugging themselves
into oblivion. "

-from here

I often feel the need to move freely. To dance, to fight to frolic. Where can I be free?

Late night bad poetry

I plan to write everyday. This means that some days you will be subjected to filler. So here goes. My brother refuses to comment on how bad this is, so I will let others decide:


I measure time in displacement;
in fractions and time zones 'till i touch down on the island.
But more time,
breaking through jet lag,
from flight attendants and bus drivers,
quiet girls with straight backs behind counters,
mothers who borderline manhandle their children
and children who shut up
same time,
are the slow rhythms of not dialect, not creole
just patois without qualification.
The "Jamaican", understood
all by them
who don't understand a word.