deja sera
/dey-zhah sair-uh/ noun the feeling that each time you experience something 0.0. or feel a certain emotion, it feels like it is the first time; an event occurs, and already it feels part of the future antonym: dĂŠjĂ vu origin: French deja already
Spanish sera will be
deja sera
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The Lost Boy Pieces Together the Ashes “But please lover, I will hurt you Because you are so unique & somehow so reminiscent of the things I’ve done in the name of love”
I am tired of these words haunting me Of making ghosts of lovers
I am tired
as if to forget
As if to reject haunting as a form of love I wish to become beautiful
as if to become unloved by spirits
I cannot have all these words
Bogging me down
making me
thick with the songs of another
I mean to say
I want to build home with you
I love you
I mean to say
I mean to say
but beautiful I mean to say
Look into the flames, lover
Of those before you I mean to say
I am lost
I will stop chasing his shadow
I’ve felt this love before
their touch
These are the ghosts
Look into the flames, lover
This is a new start for us
I will always be haunted by their touch
You are loving damaged goods
Look into the flames, lover
You are loving boy raised by fire
do you see these parts of me?
My crooked spine
my deformed ribcage
Lover, don’t you see?
All these things I’ve burnt
Lover, don’t you know? This is my 3rd time starting over Lover, don’t you feel it?
but now you know this
my shoulders
and the black brand on my thigh
they remind me of you
but I’ve mastered this pounding heart.
That this is the start of our story? That this is where we’ll build home?
Lover, don’t you remember?
What I said before the fire started?
I took fire to all my former firsts? Before I promised this would be the last first time?
“But please lover, this hurts me Because you are so unique & Somehow so reminiscent of all the things I’ve been told love is supposed to be.”
Before
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5. It loves to hit you like you’ve never been bruised before, as if the blood vessels aren’t already drowning in a sea of blue and green and twilight. It likes to jab mechanically, with the fervor and reverence of the new. It vows to sting like the old. It promises to no one but itself and you (its only true companion) to ache like the very first time. There is never second. Never a second. Never a moment. The same tooth pulled every night while the others cower. In blame. Fear. And the others crumple. In shame. Rage. How can the same nightmare have so many disguises? How can it be known and never anticipated? Its stealth cloaks its familiarity. It looks you in the eye with the all the confidence of the falsely accused. It barges its way inside, appearing so unholy to shut the door on the face which laughs so often it can’t be labeled anything but friend. The only one who knows the pain of death row is the executioner, the one who cannot apologize because they have a job to do. It can only keep inflicting, keep pouring the tea in your lap as your cup is full of anything but mercy. It loves to meet you all over again in the dark with its whisper on your jaw. It lives to remind you. Each time, digging in. Collecting the same debt.
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For ( Those in [] ){ #I have no words. #it is my first time?
If (this == new){ Why does my heart beat for home? How can you do these things to me? The “things” I noticed are yellow, not that of decay but of a sunny day. If (You==sunny day){ Why must your smile remind me of twilight? Your lips are lit by red and the white of your smile is reminiscent Of standing before the sun as it sets. White sun being carried into the beloved silence of night By purple & amber []-er. #I mean to say If (You == familiar){ Is it because I watch the sunset every day? & does that make me nighttime or []-er? }else{ I hope that you’ve been in my heart all along. }
#note: twilight is beautiful on its own #so why not say the words you actually feel?
#You == foreig
#why must the sun set? #why must the moon rise? #is this all a form of []?
While (You == present & I == ... ){ #we are at home I see [Passion]. I see my reason to write, not in you but in stage lights, mimicking sunlight in the nighttime. I see [Passion] in Jazz, in this river of songs that I was never bathed in. I see [Passion] in the sound of feet smacking the floor like the beating of hearts. } While (You & I == together ){ #the rest of the world is silent & I can’t help but want to sway to a slow song #repeating until night falls like it was the first time all over again. } While (You & I == hand & hand){ #our [] is rewritten I forget the way the sun rises and sets & can only remember the first time I spotted twilight. }}}}
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9. She pieced through photograph after photograph strewn on the red and gold threaded rug. Every few minutes, Mom would reach out and pick one from the scattered patches, look at it wistfully, and then become distracted by another distant memory. I yawned — the laziness of the Sunday morning refused to shake itself from my eyes. Then, she smiled at me again. “Look at this one, maa’re. I thought I’d never find this one again!” She handed it to me, and I inspected it. A photograph of a elderly looking man gently smiling in the crowd of several of his daughters. “Here’s your grandfather, Saeed.” I stared closer at the wrinkles around his smile and children he was smiling at. Mom always mentioned that she was the youngest in the family, so I looked out for her in the children milling about, but I could not tell if any were her. “I wasn’t born yet, honey,” she said in response. “There’s Auntie Gumja, Auntie Geday, Uncle Absalam, Auntie Nura…” The Chattering Lady, The Scold, Soft-Hearted Uncle, The One in Europe…and a bunch of other names that I didn’t recognize. But my heart fell in disappointment. All of the pictures I had seen of her were old and faded: her passport photo when she left for Jeddah in her twenties, her Canadian citizenship papers, and a faded photo of her with a college roommate. Grown up and always frowning in them, her eyes too serious as she stared blankly into the camera lens. Everyone always said that I looked like Dad, but a random aunt looked at me when I blew out my sixth birthday candle and said I looked exactly like Mom when she was a little girl. Which was true? “Dad has baby photos, so why don’t you?” I asked. Her lips pressed together in a tight line. “You know, he had a lot of advantages growing up in Addis. Better jobs, better schools, better houses. His dad was a warehouse manager, too.” she said. “It was just easier to afford than in Asmara.” I paused for a while. “Do you ever miss home?” “A little bit. Your dad wants to move back when we retire, but I’m not sure. I think I’m a bit too much for Eritrea now. I’m probably too American to fit in there now,” she snickered. “Besides, most of my sisters have left.” A tear trickled out from the corner of her eye, and she swiped it away before it left a trace. I pretended not to see. And suddenly, she was only human. Then the kettle whistled from the kitchen and demanded our attention. The breeze stopped drifting like dead air and resumed its daily movement. Always changing. “We should take some more photos together. You’re going to change so much when you’re gone, Reema. We have to keep these things around if we want to keep the memories intact.”
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aim for love and aim for truth we are bending and breaking despite our luck: we haven’t needed to learn to forget. we watch you float over lake michigan, our faces cracked, our eyes wet. is emptiness all that makes you whole? what else should we say than sigh? no record of last love felt, or hands held? but bodies burn into the ground, and memories don’t fade. pain does. “your heart is still beating in all of my dreams,” in all the dreams i’d have with you, when someone’s not family by mere blood.
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Einstein Explains Guitars When I see Einstein at the crosswalk I’ll ask him to build me a time machine. He will say “what year is it” and I’ll say it doesn’t matter some moments need more time than others anyway and frankly, it’s unfair to force all of them to squeeze into the space between two hands He will ask “where do you want to go,” and I’ll say “last wednesday night: storm rolling over the lake the lights in the room honey-like everything soft with laughter. And just like always, I stop thinking about how many people I will love in my lifetime, or where my shadow will fall when all the hands freeze I’m just happy with how the cookies crunch the color of light smeared on our walls and every infinite thing we need is in the way our hearts beat the baselines of each other’s favorite song” so I bet that just as the lights turn green in the middle of the crosswalk Einstein will say “this is why we have guitars” and we will all sing something into the sky, again and just like last time, we will all call it something other than wednesday
origins
1.
emma
2. + 7.
marlin
3. + 4.
nur banu
5. 6.
kelly elizabeth ashvini
8.
brooke
9.
reema
10.
eli
11.
michelle
12.
nivedina
AIM (Art is Movement) was formed to establish a community for creators of all levels & media to come together and, well, create. We firmly believe that: 1. art is action; it is moving, engaging, challenging, not static, not complacent 2. art is powerful; that it can move people, ideas, politics, the world etc. on large and small scales 3. art is inclusive; just as how everyone can move, everyone can make art Special thanks to UCSC’s Chicago Bound program & to Emma B. for lending her USB to make this happen To learn more or get involved, email muyang@uchicago.edu