Kern Carter's Blog, page 37
June 18, 2022
Love is welcome here
Photo by Janay Peters on UnsplashI’ve been in love many times, but I don’t know if I’m good at it.
I fell in love with the boy who told me in the third grade that the cut on my face was cool and looked like a tiger stripe.
I fell in love with the kid who used the flashlight from my phone to make shadow puppets on the back of the chairs in the movie theater.
I fell in love with the shy boy who stuttered when he talked. He was just afraid of his own words as I was afraid of mine.
I fell in love with the stranger who I met in the dark at a basement party, who asked me for my number by whispering in my ear and shining his phone on mine so we could exchange numbers.
I would run out of fingers if I counted how many times I fell in love. Some say it’s the Libra in me and I would say they are not wrong. Libras are the “lovers” of the zodiac. For me, the stars always align.
If you asked about my first love, I would say my first love was like the north star that pointed me in the direction of all the rest.
First love was puppy love, young love, and became distant love.
At the start of love, we went on first dates to Applebees, where my first love and I would sit, side by side, in the booth because I was too shy to eat in front of him.
By the end of love, we had laughed, cried, and shared the ugliest and most beautiful parts of one another. There was no room for hiding.
My first love was my mirror who held all of who I was and accepted me as is. The first to love me, even before I loved myself.
When love ended I came in contact with other loves.
A love that was fun and had no strings holding us together.
Another love that started off as friendship then turned into a song. One day the music became too loud and harmonies no longer mixed.
A love that stripped me of everything, at times making me feel lifeless. At the same time, it became a love that helped me to create life and love in human form.
When all those loves faded and there was nothing else but me and the sound of my own heartbeat, I sat in isolation reflecting on all my different relationships. Like I said, I have fallen in love many times, but it seemed like my first love was the only one who fell with me. There were days when I felt like he would be the only one who ever would.
For the duration of my first love and my time together I wrote him letters every month. After a lot of reading and self-reflection, I realized that words of affirmation are my love language and it was something I shared with him. I also realized I never really knew his language or tried to speak it. I just took the love he gave me and let it fill me.
Make no mistake, I loved my first love with my heart, but my heart didn’t really know how to love. Every love after has been trial and error, with a whole lot of error.
After years of failed relationships, therapy, and forcing myself to look in my own mirror, I’m still not even sure if I’m ready for love yet.
I’ve been in love many times because I wasn’t scared to fall, now I have a fear of heights.
But, deep down, I’m still a lover and I’m still curious. I owe that to my first love.
If I were to write him a letter today it wouldn’t be long.
But I would thank him for showing me that love, even if it was young and fresh, it exists. Even if it doesn’t last, it’s out there. I would tell him how I used to think there was only one person out there for us and that’s why I held on so long, even though I probably should have let him go so many times. Now I feel like there are so many opportunities for love and maybe one day I’ll have an opportunity that will last a lifetime like the one we used to talk about.
Or maybe I’ll have a love for another season and then another love after that. But, whatever the case I’m thankful for the first love and I hope along the way love wasn’t ruined for him. That love has been good to him and that his life is full of it.
Because people who open the doors for love should be received with the greatest love there is from a person who loves well.
.
[image error]Love is welcome here was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
June 17, 2022
I Failed Her
For a span of about two or three months, my twenties were what I think many of us dream our twenties will be like.
June 14, 2022
Just for a Moment
Sometimes everything is perfect but the reality is never far away
June 13, 2022
Words on Paper
Photo by furkanfdemir: https://www.pexels.com/photo/crop-writer-with-feather-and-notepad-at-table-in-sunbeam-7080688/Words on Paper:
Take me back
To a time I’ve never lived
Take me back
To places, I’ve never been
Take me back
To worlds, I’ve never seen
Take me back
I’m eager to leave
*
Chasing for titles
For a title make it easier
Always somewhere between
A writer and a warrior
Chasing for beauty
For spilling truth is bittersweet
And it is not always pretty
See me writing as I bleed
*
Chasing for meanings
For these words on paper
Always thinking
of how to live up to “writer”
But she doesn’t need a title
For all she does is write
And I’m but her favorite messenger
She has something to say
Places she wants to see
She doesn’t get this world
She is mine; the writer in me
And we have the same smile
But we’re not the same
*
“Take me with you,” she says
“Take me to you,” I say
We’re the same. Yet different
For when it hits midnight
And our dance is over
She would reflect on it
I’d rather sleep
She is an overthinker
But I love her; The writer in me
*
Take us back
To a time we’ve never lived
Take us back
To places we’ve never been
Take us back
To worlds, we’ve never seen
Take us back
For we’re eager to leave
-Imane Ben
___________________________________________________________________
Author Note:
It has been a while, CRY Magazine community! I hope you’ve all been well during these challenging times! I hope you’ve enjoyed this comeback piece as much as it was an experience for me to write it!
Stay strong and happy creating!
Sending love,
[image error]Words on Paper was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
June 11, 2022
June 10, 2022
Writing: the first love that continuously abandons and redeems me
I can’t talk about what first inspired me to write without addressing the numerous times I’ve had to drag myself back to the blank page.
June 9, 2022
What Inspired You To Write
Photo by Chloe Evans on Unsplash“Open the dictionary to the word The, and write the definition five times.” This was every substitute teacher’s punishment for a rowdy, uncontrollable classroom in the ’70s. This was met with unfettered moans, groans, and the occasional sudden stomach ache, followed by a request to go to the nurse’s office.
I was different. There is something about words that I have always loved. I guess that is when I started “people watching,” Until I knew how to pen the words for the fumbling travesties before my eyes, I just watched and let my mind describe the situation. I reveled in taking out that six-pound, 968-page, word bible bound with red thread. Gently turning each delicate onion page, feeling its silkiness on my fingers, staring at the indentations where another letter began. I was in heaven.
Digging my finger into the “T” indentation, I would soak in all of the words until I reached the H’s, where THE had taken up almost the entire page with its definition. Did I enjoy this mindless, penial task? Not in the slightest bit, but I got to stare at Teddy Spinkins from my peripherals for two hours, and oh, I was smitten with him.
Writing from that point throughout high school was a directed task on a particular topic, slant, or doctrine. You were to read information, then synthesize it into a report, just the facts, with no room for any creativity, except on the first day back to school after summer vacation, where you had to write about what you had done for the past three months.
In my first year of college, in Literature 101, our first assignment was to write a four-page paper on anything we wanted. No citations, APA format, or plastic cover. At the time, this seemed like an unattainable task. No topic? No direction? It felt like a setup for failure.
Undenounced to me, I was working on my Freshman 15 as I drove to the local Burger King; when I stopped at a red light, I saw this man picking his nose. A grown-ass man, in public, in the daylight, just picking his nose like no one is around! This burned my ass, and as soon as I finished my double whopper and fries, I rolled a piece of paper into my typewriter and began belting those keys.
An hour later, I zipped the last sheet of paper out of the machine and laid it on top of the four that were face down. I felt a release, a calmness swelled over my body, my mind had the clarity of a deep-diving Loran, and my thoughts were settled. The title, “The Public Nose Picker,” was not revised, edited, or looked at until I placed it on the corner of my professor’s desk at the beginning of class.
The following week the professor had handed back our papers and was very generous with her critiques, however hard on the grading. Each person that received their paper looked at it, grunted, and stuffed it into their satchels. Mine was missing. Sometimes in High School, the teachers collated the reports by grade; the best ones on top, the lower your grade in a pile, the lower your grade.
My heart sank; this was the first time I thought about the title and body of the paper, and I began to become sullen. The professor stopped and said, “ Ladies and Gentleman, I will read one of your papers out loud” She began, “The Public Nose Picker.” I felt so small I could crawl under the top left staple. I could hear my classmates chuckle, then laugh. I lifted my head to see engaged gazes and smiling faces. Pride kicked the embarrassment to the curb, and I felt elated hearing my words come out of her mouth and dance across the ears of my classmates.
That was the day that inspired me to get my observations out of my head and onto paper or screen. There is something cathartic about writing and even more satiating when the stories resonate with people. It is therapy swirled with excitement and topped with a heaping about of passion. Words are powerful; when strung together, they can take you on adventures near and far or allow you to revisit some of your fondest memories and pull up a chair and stay as long as you’d like.
[image error]What Inspired You To Write was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
Dreamscapes: Flaming Torii Gate
I am a firm believer that despite the content of the dream, it is a dream unless very vividly stated otherwise. Dreams do not turn into potential nightmares unless I genuinely feel cold sweats and shiver awake, and subsequently knock my forehead on my coffin, or I can still somewhat feel uneasy to this day.
In my eyes, a dream is simply a story my mind wishes me to be a part of. The story might be a horror or a fantasy or contemporary, but it’s one I am a part of and can change if need be. Nightmares are forced participation with no chance of a shifted course. In a dream, your pain is primary. In a nightmare, your pain is secondary.
Which is why I categorize the dream I wanted to write about as a dream rather than a nightmare. Despite its variable content and how I opened my coffin afterwards to stare at the ceiling of my family house, it’s still a story I participated in.
I call this dream: “Flaming Torii Gate.”
— — —
I’m in a grocery store with my friend. The store itself is huge, fluctuating and shifting with the tides of my mind. I can’t pinpoint my friend’s face. It is also swaying. Everything in the store is slightly blurry, just slightly foggy, just slightly unseen. It feels like a microscope out of focus. Everything has form and shape, but no identity.
My friend gives me some chocolate and I courteously take it. I want to pay her back, so I grab a box of chocolate as well, the labels twirling, and nearly put it in my shopping cart. She looks at me and says, as if it’s an afterthought, “It’s nearly Ramadan.”
My brain stops and I go into overdrive. I ask if it’s okay, if I’m actually allowed to give her this unbranded chocolate, I begin to ramble into silence. I pause and think, wanting to give her the gift but not wanting her to accept it with tight lips. The conversation dissipates and in the hazy fog of the forms in the store, I don’t know if the chocolate is in the cart. I also don’t know if I realized that I am overreacting.
I go to the checkout when I look to my left. A crystal clear image breaks through the fog. A torii gate stands flaming, glowing in an empty environment. Cherry blossoms glowing hot pink float around the gate. The sight is intoxicating and addicting. It reaches out and grabs me, dragging me towards it subconsciously. I cross the torii gate.
Torii gates are meant to represent the crossing over from the normal, every day to the spiritual, hence their appearance in front of shrines in Tsunoqi. By crossing through this gate, I move from the normal mall to a cursed game of survival; the natural and mundane to the spiritual and unknown. Torii gates are also sometimes used to seal spirits away. By crossing this gate, I must’ve let a dangerous spirit go wild.
There’s a game master. She’s a woman in unidentifiable clothing killing and harming people for the very fun of it all. Everyone, unrecognized shapes, run around trying to save themselves and save others. The area where there was once an exit back to the normalcy of the mall has disappeared. The exit of the area leads to a staircase with a dead end.
In all the confusion and panic, I meet a human girl at the top of a blue-walled building. She wears a pink tracksuit, which is the only image of her I could perceive as static. The rest of her is foggy. She glares at me then asks where the balconies are. I don’t know; I tell her straight. She backs away, as though it were all a trick question, and jumps onto the ledge of a balcony that suddenly appears behind her. She throws a leg over the railing.
I beg her not to jump with both my mind and my lungs. I beg her to stay put and we’ll find a way out. She shakes her head.
“Don’t worry,” she starts, softly like a mother caressing their child, “it isn’t your fault. It isn’t your fault.”
When I go back downstairs, the pink tracksuit is crumpled to my right. I don’t have the time to dwell.
The game master is bored. She opens up a new set of staircases and exits. She begins to lure people down there to kill them. I almost go along with a group of friends, but as the game master laughs and waits for me to take the bait, I change my mind. I step away and leave. I find refuge amongst a part of the game area that looks more like a furniture store.
In that moment, I solve the riddle of it all. A dull answer resonates in my mind. It makes no sense, yet it’s the end point of it all. A race is playing on the TV in the stand nearby me. As I watch it, cars would occasionally fly out of the TV directly at me. I hide by a hollowed-out dresser and a night stand and the cars miss me, flying towards the torii gate.
When the cars stop flying at me, I left the grocery store. It’s an abandonment of my initial purpose, but there’s barely anyone there anyways.
Outside, I’m met with an outdoor carnival at night within the front parking lot. The air is a humid spring and the road is slick with a layer of fresh rain. A merry-go-round spins quickly and kids are screaming. As they fly around, they are being hosed, adding to the presence of water on the ground. Fire burns near the rides and it illuminates the reflective night. The fire glows like it did around the torii gate.
In the main parking lot, the road is like running on ice. I nearly get hit by some people trying to kill me. The second time I nearly get hit, I get onto the hood and decide to ride along. As we leave, I overhear a group of men speaking about wishing to kill not only me, but also the women in the car I am riding on. I tell the women to get down and drive fast. They’re going the same place I am, so I don’t worry about where they’re going.
We eventually get to my apartment complex. It looks much more like a mall with its vague indoor decorations, but the set-up of each house looking more like packed vendors at a convention. A group of my friends are waiting for me there but the men show up with guns. They want me dead.
They open fire on our group and everyone ducks and tries to push me to safety. They discuss amongst themselves how to survive when I decide to stick up for everyone. I scream at them, asking them who they are and why they’re trying to kill me. I also tell them to leave my friends out of it.
They get very offended. They are frightened that I don’t know them. It’s such a scare that they put down their guns and hold themselves. I’m taken aback by the sudden behavior.
The dream ends all at once. The image of the torii gate is burned into my mind, to this day, as I’m writing this. I hope the description (and my drawing) of it is enough to transfer the image properly into your minds, as it was an image that I don’t think words or pictures can do justice to.
After having the dream, I also thought a lot about the girl in the pink tracksuit. I thought about what she said and how she consoled me about her. I wondered what she meant when she said it wasn’t my fault. What wasn’t my fault, or what wouldn’t be my fault? I hope I took her advice not to blame myself.
It’s advice that can be taken much larger. Not everything bad in your life is your fault. It might’ve just happened or existed with or without you. Sometimes life happens all at once. It’s not your fault.
— Heleza
[image error]Dreamscapes: Flaming Torii Gate was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
