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This work is the first in a series of paintings that accompanies the story, "House of Sapphic". It is my attempt to process the profound grief that I sustained within the past 3 years. Below is an excerpt from the prologue of the book.
HOUSE OF SAPPHIC
Prologue
How can love be so painful in its perseverance? It lives on, in ruins. And all ruins remember.
Isn’t that what Grief is, a persevering love?
You throw all that love against the impenetrable, towering monolith of absolute silence. You smash it, dash it, violently impaling it onto the spiked walls, hoping that perhaps, just maybe, it will bleed through to the other side.
That they may know. That you can find some relief in knowing a possibility for breath, for living, even in some distant world, in a different kind of living.
July 2020. My grandmother died.
December 2021. My father died.
May 2022. My mother died.
May 2023. My uterus, fallopian tubes, and cervix were removed and with it, two massive fibroids, or as I call them, my deathless children - the only things I could ever mother. I named them, Uthar and Grim.
Since then, I have been a renowned expert at bloodletting. I am the crowned royalty, nay, the champion for the ruinous resolution of love.
I am the walking hollow. I am the expanse.
I avoided taking public transportation for the longest time because I knew that I wouldn’t be able to stem the rising tears purged from the intrusive thoughts. “Intrusive” is a bad word, isn’t it? How could enduring love be unwanted and uninvited? It’s so much easier to cry alone in your car as you fly down the highway. Two full hours of uninterrupted flow of briny tears, each way. But now, I can’t cry when riding the train. I don’t care for what people think. I care that they might witness my private pain, that I do not wish to share with anyone, for other eyes than mine to see. The falling apart is sacred.
There’s just too much space and time when you’re alone, when you’re sitting still, against your will, inside a fast-moving metal tube. There is no escape. I hate the persistent grinding growl of its engine. Auditory assault. I hate the flashing of concrete and lights, platforms and silhouettes as we zip through the tunnel and dark spaces that are not my own.
Now the tears are pooling at the corners of your eyes, rising slowly to spill out. You feel the wetness on your skin, the lump trying to purge itself in your throat. You’re fighting it. You’re fighting it. And then just a droplet spills over. And you wipe it discreetly with the tip of your finger as if you’re just brushing away a stray eyelash. That’s what you’re hoping people will think anyway. Because you don’t want the looks, the derision (real or not), the judgment (real or not), the shame (real or not), the embarrassment (real or not). How dare she fall apart here? Of all places, here? The pity is just too much. The misunderstanding in the good intentions and kindness of strangers is just too much.
The falling apart is sacred.
And can you imagine some genuine, good, and kind soul reaching out asking you if you’re ok? Those knives would pierce through your Great Wall of cellophane. The tsunami would burst through your mouth, splitting open your stupid frail flawed human body, smashing all the dams of your defenses, gripping you in its emotional vortex. Then you’ll fall apart. In front of uninvited eyes.
The falling apart is sacred! Say it.
THE FALLING APART IS SACRED!
I didn’t know hearts could break this way. The pieces stay broken this time. And my heart, it breaks everyday.
I’ve never loved my Versace shades more.
The self-indulgence is despicable. I drink this sulking substance like honey tar. It goes down smooth and warm like hot green tea on a cold morning, or when your sinus holds its breath out of spite. Sometimes, the stickiness hangs in my throat, reminding me of its slow-dripping poisonous nature. I didn’t think tar would be this sweet, albeit sickly, but then again, I’m not brave enough to put that theory to the test. Imagine asking the construction crew if I could have a sample of hot tar. I have my jar of grade-A pure unadulterated honey at the ready. Though, the look on the faces would be priceless.
In my dreams, I’m walking along the riverbank in a clearing of a dense and moody forest. A shy moon hangs in the sky. As I walk along the bank, I see a figure shrouded in black mist on the opposite side, locking steps with me. I am more curious than terrified, so I stop and stare. It stops and stares back at me. The air is chilled as the water becomes still as frost-tipped fingers creep through its membranes and folds. The final crack. Ice seals.
I feel its gaze wash over me.
Now, I’m floating in honey, face up to a fading sun. The lethargy feels almost natural. Comfortable. I don’t want to move. I’m hungry but I don’t want to eat. It’s too comfortable here, like when you’re burrowing under the comforters in a warm, soft bed in a well-insulated room while a snowstorm rages outside. You close your eyes and bask in the enveloping warmth. But now, this sickly-sweet barrier around me feels wrong. Its comfort is suffocating, its warmth smothering. The slow compression feels like memories seeping in, memories of my life, but I’m not allowed to own them. Then comes the rush. Velvet and silk weave through me like soft sips of the open sea. A whisper sends frisson down my spine. It’s sweet and refreshing like frozen ice cream on a hot summer afternoon. I want to hear its song.
There are barbed wires inside this smooth womb.
Yet, I crave it. The promise of release. I hear it calling my name. And all I have to do is cross that frozen pond. And many many times, a toe or two may have come too close to getting frostbite.
I cling to this, a piece of driftwood in the middle of an unforgiving ocean, like it’s my lifeboat. An illusion of safety, a lie of comfort, an infrastructural inversion. When all you have ever known is water, land is death. So, I chose the still black depths. Choosing, still.
I do believe that, inside each of us, each of our thoughts, our breaths, in between our whispers, lies some kind of chaos magic, and it despises stagnation. Stillness irritates. Quiet aggravates. And so, my chaos stirred and soon broke through with all its mighty, seething fury. I felt its scorching disdain lashing my back when I was hiding behind smokes and mirrors. The searing pain of waking.
Something woke me. In the opiate cloud of quiet resignation, tinder caught fire.
I dreamed of my mother that night. We each rode a moped, and she was leading me through the dark streets of a brutalist cityscape to the airport. At one point, she was lost and had to ask for directions, but none of the denizens of this dreamscape knew the way. Then, we came across a woman with long silky dark hair in a long white dress. When asked, she simply pointed in the direction of the airport without so much as a smile or a word. I had an uneasy feeling but mom didn’t seem to think much of it. As we sped away, I looked back at her and thought I saw a smirk. To this day, I still don’t know what to make of it.
The gloomy buildings receded as we came into an open desert, with a single road leading to a towering structure in the distance. I turned to mom but she wasn’t with me anymore. I swear then I could heart my own heart thumping, its desperate attempt to escape in a rage sat like a boulder in my throat.
Before me stood an imposing stone wall, tattooed with patches of time-worn moss, lines, and cracks. It cast a shadow like a beast from some long forgotten lore, with the menacing light of the setting sun at its back. Fear gripped me. But I forced my way through. The moment my hand touched the cold, hard stone, I was jolted awake, breathless and chilled. Even my blanket had abandoned me.
Thus began my journey into the maze of grief and meeting my Muse, my Torch, and my Lionheart in the House of Sapphic.
I can’t give you all the mystery of the House of Sapphic, at least, not yet. Your anticipated disappointment is worth the suspense. Trust.
But I do want you to eat the grief that I give you. In my selfish, childish anger, I want you to hurt like I do. In my remorseful tempestuous tantrum, I want you to forgive me, for all the love with nowhere to go.
-ANKHD
