Part Two~The Colored Dreams ~ Ismara ~ Chapter 4

Posted on May 22, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

While the nearly empty plane was still on the ground

While the nearly empty plane was still on the ground, I pulled out Karima’s diary and  sat back to hear her voice speak to me once again. It was like having her sitting next to me, telling me a little secret, she had been keeping. But this little secret, had been kept for almost three years all told, and now was about to be revealed, word by word, to the light of day, and to my curious eyes, as I sat on an empty flight back to the mainland.

The more I read, the more upset I became

The more I read, the more upset I became, because I am not sure how to explain this, but I just didn’t expect what she was telling me. In some ways, I  felt I was trespassing on her privacy. Diary’s are not meant to be read by anyone, but the author of the diary, and this became very obvious the more I read. I even wondered if this somehow could be my fault, her seemingly slipping into a fantasy dream-world, was brought on because I was never home much anymore, and our conflicting schedules, robbed us of “quality twin- time” as we used to jokingly call it. When I would see my name, it would always make me catch my breath, wondering how it would be used. Sometimes it is not good to know too much, about what others think of you, or how they see you. More and more I saw this as I read on. In her first diary entry, which had no date, she had a sexual experience, and I felt odd reading it all, because in some ways, her words, were also exciting me, and this is something we never did or talked about in such detail in our lives together. It just was a taboo we both knew and respected, but did not however, include hours of analyzing why some guy was hot or why another was not. We discussed things like that day and night in high-school, but when it came to our own sexuality, the new experiences we were having, we kept it at a minimal of detail, which is why her voice, admitting every reaction to this dream, caused me to feel uncomfortable, as if I were really spying on her.

I put the book down after only the second Diary entry

I put the book down after only the second Diary entry, my head was spinning round and round, and a feeling of building sadness, crawled up inside of me and started to lodge in my eyes, where tears began to fall. Her entries, were long, and she went into great detail to tell it so it could be pictured, easily visualized. I felt she had an idea, she wanted to paint the scenes, some of them anyway, as these details were only for herself. This is difficult for me to talk about, but as each page turned, I was feeling more  and more a sense of betrayal from someone who was literally my other half. Of course we had differences of opinion, and tastes, and everything, but one thing we always had for each other was loyalty, and after reading the second entry, I realized she had chosen something, some fantasy that was not even real, over me, her real-life identical twin.

How could she not have told me about this?

“How could she not have told me about this?”
I admit to being emotional, we both are, or were, and Karima was the artist, while I never found an art form that felt right, one that I could turn feelings into beauty. I tried my hand at writing, took art classes right from the beginning alongside my sister, but where she excelled, I  failed, and felt I could not control my hand well enough to draw or paint, or my train of thought to be a poet, or a writer, so I gave it up very early. My sensitivity lingered on with no way to channel it into more positive things. My tears were how I could show my feelings, only my tears, and they fell on their own, coming from the deepest place of sadness that I possessed. I was so glad the plane was empty, as I let them flow freely over my cheeks, without trying to stop them. It would have been useless anyway to even try. Only one thought repeated itself over and over again,
“How could she not have told me about this?”

I fell over into the empty seat next to me and cried my eyes out

I fell over into the empty seat next to me and cried my eyes out, and a river of tears began to make a river of questions surge inside, like a flash flood of negative ideas, that was beyond my stopping. What had my sister gotten into? She believed so quickly, after only a few nights, that it wasn’t normal dreaming she was experiencing, but a sort of astral projecting I guess, that carried her into a parallel world. She never mentioned anything about drugs, and I searched my memory thoroughly and could not remember one incident of finding any on her, or in her room. We just didn’t do drugs, either of us. So..could she have been right? Or was she clearly delusional, almost a year before her accident? Then even the accident came into question. Was it really that, or something self-orchestrated by Karima, to leave this world, and me behind? Worse yet, could it have been subliminally planted into her, and was it really murder, as I sometimes suspected?

Today is the day I realized a sad truth

Today was the day I realized a sad truth and none of these speculations made any difference. Karima did not trust me. I wouldn’t have jeopardized her, I know I wouldn’t have, and maybe I could have been her confident instead of the diary, where she chose to put all her truths.  Maybe I could have changed the course of everything, and she would still be here today. This is why I really cried, out of  frustration, the fact that I was powerless to stop anything that happened, and worse yet, the daily loss I felt, the knowledge that she was never coming back. I loved her and trusted her even if she didn’t feel the same about me. Her last words at the bottom of the page, felt like a knife being slipped into my heart,
<“Am I still tempted to confess and relate this all to Ismara? My answer is the last word of my diary entry,
“No”
I close it and put it away.>
I too closed the journal tightly shut at that point and thought, I just might put it away forever.

The plane landed and I picked up my carry-on to leave

The plane landed and I picked up my carry-on to leave, the diary once again locked up inside. As I got up to make my way to the exit, I was struck with an idea, and the more I considered it, the more I decided I would do it.

In the end opening the diary did not bring me peace

In the end opening the diary did not bring me peace, as I had hoped it would, so, wouldn’t it just be better to leave it lay inside a suitcase forever, maybe even at some point, bury it symbolically to give it back to her… for her eyes only?

Like a bird being sucked up into a jet

Like a bird being sucked up into a jet, the air was taken out of me, my thoughts were not under my control, and I just knew, that this is what I would do. I would put the diary away and not take it out again. It had caused me to realize a hard truth, that in the end, we never do know anyone else, not even a twin we thought we did.
Composing myself as best I could and putting on my best face, I walked off the tarmac, and through the terminal to catch a cab for home.

Finally at home, I could collapse on the floor

Finally at home, I could collapse on the floor, and this is what I did, as I found I had the house to myself. I talked to the diary hidden in my carry-on as if it were Karima herself who was closed up inside.
“I’m sorry you didn’t trust me. I’m sorry I can’t change anything that happened to you” Picking myself up and removing all the rest of my belongings and throwing them on a chair, I carried the suitcase back upstairs. Inside my walk-in closet, I found a space behind some boxes of old books, and I hid the suitcase with my sister’s Diary inside.
“Good bye Karima. I wish you peace, but I don’t want to know one thing more about a life you decided not to include me in.”
Closing the closet door all the way shut, behind me I walked away, trying for perhaps the first time since her death, to get on with my own life, and leave the past behind.


to be continued…

Karima Hoisan
May 22, 2011
Linc Renacer SL
©2011 all rights reserved

*please see my comment

Posted in Prose Vignettes, Slices of Second Life, The Colored Dreams | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

My Beloved Moth’s Burning Flame

Posted on May 20, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

"...where the piper lures me from the park..."


I invite you to click this link to hear an .mp3 music file by Angelo Badalamenti entitled Roberto’s Arabesque to set the mood along with the picture and the poem.

Weirdness is the first name for my beloved moth’s burning flame,
that fires me up to go to shocking places, startling and treacherously unknown,
where the piper lures me from the park, into the twisted wooded back-ways,
and there I’m finally set ablaze inside someone’s unexpected game.

Strange is the middle name for my beloved moth’s burning flame,
the bass keys, the minor scales, where a shopping cart preludes sad endings,
so attractive for my dark- side, waxen wings of off-beat curiosity,
yes, it’s probably that tendency, of poetic self destruction that’s to blame.

Disturbed is the first surname for my beloved moth’s burning flame,
Emo, Goth, white-skinned -red lipped and wearing a pale down-turned grin,
ominous black birds, fog wheels and rolls, while the piper’s music plays,
and dangerous dogs do not obey, while children tease as if they’re tame.

Freakish is the last surname for my beloved moth’s burning flame,
excessive imagination, makes the wind cry and the leaves now whisper “die.”
The wick tonight does burn too bright, and curious moths will crisp and sputter.
Eldritch strolls out of the gutter, and in the dim-lit park, what’s his, he will reclaim.

Karima Hoisan
May 19, 20011
Virtual Art Gallery LINC Island SL

*please see my comment below

Posted in Poems, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 3 Comments

Abstraction of Heart

Posted on May 17, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

"Thrown against the splattered window pane..."


Please enjoy the music“Ode” by David Darling chosen for this poem

Abstraction of Heart
inspired by the painting “Visceral Fling” by Jan Betts

Thrown against the splattered window pane of broken dreams,
a shot rings out past candle-light, and the amorous wine for two,
illusions sweetened aperitif, now you taste it, and now you don’t,
the fresh bruised center piece, with wounded flowering flesh is you.

Romance does die, and all is ugly raw, like meat that’s served too crude-
and blood slides dripping down the viaduct of one more lost affair. 
Let the heavens cry, and open wide to abject emptiness tonight,
I see you take one in the heart, oh… such a  painful bloody tear!

So don’t be mad if it won’t heal tomorrow or by the next week’s dawn,
Or sometimes, wants to disintegrate in liquid salt -filled plates.
Yes these pumps of hope and mirrors are known to finally self -repair,
but something that used to live within, gets lost forever from its fate.

Love’s lethal shell when passing, pierces, nerves cry out ever- imprinted,
It now survives, an injured veteran caught between a truth and lie.
Shot by a killer word that rings and echo- flecks with drilled disdain,
Ripped-out and flung, a heart beat stutters, grabs for breaths, but will not die.


Karima Hoisan
May 17, 2011
S.I. Costa Rica
©2011 all rights reserved

*please see my comment

Posted in Poems | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

Part Two~The Colored Dreams~Dream Diary Entry #2

Posted on May 12, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

I can’t say I’m not tempted…

 I invite you to listen to my reading of this chapter, along with a selected, mood adding music track.
Just click on the link  here to enjoy it while you read along, and look at the pictures, as if I were in your room, reading it to you. <Karima~ Diary Entry#2>

 I can’t say I’m not tempted to tell Ismara about my first dream, because it would not be true, I am tempted. I’m lying here right now thinking about it, hovering on sleep’s border. Really, I never keep anything from her, except very personal details that might involve someone else in some way, but I can not get those sing-song words out of my head, each time I feel I just might let it all spill out.
“If you tell anyone. You will not be invited back. You will never come back”
I don’t want that to happen. I can not even think of it.
I sketched a few images this last week, and every night I wish and will that I will be allowed back in. I have now a book of sketches that I keep alongside my diary, and if she asks any questions, I will say it is just a project for illustrating a fantasy story, and in this way, I would hardly be lying. After more than a week has gone by, and I have not had another dream like the first, I am starting to believe it was a one-time vision or something of that matter. It really was only a dream after all, no matter how vivid, how real, how it physically touched me here in my bed, it was only a dream and there probably will not be another. These are my last thoughts as I drift off into sleep tonight.

When I become lucid in the dream, I am still in my pajamas

When I become lucid in the dream, I am still in my pajamas, and as hard as I try to push my way in, as I did the first time, I can’t seem to enter. I am inspired to call out, but as far as I can see, my voice has little to do with how they understand me. I say they, because so far I have felt many different entities, some that seem to be much higher and much more curious about me, than the others. I remember I first saw myself on the other side, as if I were at home, and when I closed my eyes, and opened them again, I was in the dream, dressed for the dream. This might be how I need to do it, and so I close my eyes and just listen to a far away music that sounds  like something I have heard awake, and yet it sounds like nothing I have heard. I keep trying to bring this world into something familiar, at least to compare it to, but it is illusive, dizzily changing, and so hard to describe, that when I try to write about it, I begin to think my diary will be painted like an abstract, open for many of my own interpretations.

I float on the other side, so painlessly, all I had to do was open my eyes

 I float on the other side, so painlessly, all I had to do was open my eyes. I am dressed in an evening gown, a hard to describe color, somewhere between pink and  pale-blue violet. I have high heels, jewelry, once again a style I would not wear in my waking life, yet I feel this is who I am supposed to be here, or perhaps someone’s idea of who I should be. Each time I think of this, I am so curious as to who that “someone” or should I call it “something” might be, and what he/she/it wants from me. As I float suspended on the other side of the barrier, I am thinking that this very moment is now my living proof, that I am not dreaming,but instead voyaging in a land I can barely grasp, or function in. So far I have only seen spheres, felt fingers, and a presence so strongly sensual, that I was moved beyond myself. How can I describe now what I feel like returning to this state, this world, if I may call it that. There is a slight feeling of embarrassment, as if I have been scrutinized in my weakest moment. I wonder if the presence I met in that dark room, will show itself again.I won’t lie to a diary, because what would be the point of that? I secretly hope it does find me again here, sometime.

Languid and liquid is how I feel

Languid and liquid is how I feel, when I am carried gently and smoothly from the heights of the barrier, through transparent floors that easily make way for my descent. I try to count them, and lose count, but I feel I am going very deep inside this structure of design, a new form of architecture for me, so foreign yet so beautiful in its strange angles, odd textures, surprising walls , sparse rooms with things that appear and disappear as I pass through them. It seems more logical sounding as I write it down, but at the moment I am living on this side, it is always on the edge of being too overwhelming. There seems to be no one to greet me, orient me, observe me, or tease me, so I lay here, still waiting to see what will happen next. Maybe only a few minutes pass, before I feel a direct summons to get up and to sit on the only piece of furniture in the entire long corridor, for this is not a room, but  a passageway, where I have been put down.

I stare into the long passageway and now feel I am not alone.

I stare into the long hallway and now feel I am not alone. I call out to the walls that look almost like they are textured in blue-green hair,
“Hello if you can hear me,” my voice has a metallic echo,” I have returned and I have told no one that I have come before”
A warm heat presses into my raised hand, as if sunbeams suddenly could grow hands, that could gently press against my own. I feel faint, and at the same time so privileged. Whatever this presence is, I know it knows I have just spoken the truth, and it greets me in a way, we both seem to understand is friendly and trusting. I look down to my right and see the pink sphere, about the size of the large red one I was given to hold and asked to take back with me. This heat, the hand I had just felt against my own, moves past me, leaving a trail of warmth and almost a slight smell, not unpleasant, but unknown. I watch it enter the crystal ball, filling it making the orb, wobble and shudder a little as it is being filled.

 It swirls in transparent waves, and then it sends a thought to me

 It swirls in transparent waves, and then it sends a thought to me. It is not a voice, if anything it is my voice I hear, but the words, the feelings, none of these are mine.
“We say this one is welcome, and only this one. That one, that is similar to this one, must wait outside. It is not that one’s time to come.”
“Yes”, I nod in total understanding.”My sister Ismara, who is similar to me, can not come here yet”
The sphere vibrates the entire basket I am sitting on, I feel a chill emanate from it, and I know the words it says to me are once again a reminder that its rules, its order, its world must be respected and obeyed.
“If this one talks of here to that one, it will cause a danger, and a crack, so unfortunate, that even the other side where this one lives, will unravel and perhaps terminate.”
I can not even believe this warning, so dire, that it places now in my head. I have so many questions I wish I could ask, but I only say with a sincere heart,
“Never. Never will I talk of what I see to anyone”
“Follow” and I rise and follow behind the ball that floats at waist level ahead of me.

The hallway glows as if  in moonlight

The hallway glows, as if in moonlight, and I am feeling that bewitched feeling of a full moon night. I have no fear, just a deep curiosity to see what it is I will be shown and how whatever I see, may help me understand this world. I already feel a certainty this is not a land of spirits passed over from the life I know and was born into. This is another world, that runs parallel, like my  grandmother referred to perhaps as the “land of fiery beings” because she was afraid to say the name all knew and whispered about, the world of Jinn. A world as valid as our own, created by the same Creator. These were her beliefs, and many  millions world-wide shared them, but no one liked to talk of them. Could it be I was the one who crossed over to this little-known side of Creation? What ramifications might this have on me, and on everyone? The sphere stops its floating, and right in front of me it begins  to divide into smaller perfect spheres, exactly like itself, until it no longer is visible as a whole, but only as the separate parts now floating around me, circling me, causing me to feel their presence as individual beings, yet with the same feeling as when it was one…the presence in all respects is clearly more feminine and light.

Then they apply fields of energy, that make my nerves respond…

Then they apply narrow fields of energy,like beams of broken light, that make my nerves respond in odd ways. I don’t feel this play is hostile, but I do feel helpless to stop it, so I try to relax and see what it is they wish to do with me. Before I realize it, my arms are twisting behind my back,as I am being slowly rotated, and I feel like  a captive on display for…for whom? The little balls almost giggle as they twist me around and around, and I try to feel their sense of joy, or at least play, but my heart begins to accelerate slightly with this thought,”Someone, something watches me again” It is almost as if I hear the thoughts, of something much stronger, masculine, commanding, that the smaller spheres move me this way or that for its own personal enjoyment.

There is a humming and the sound of dry wind

There is a humming and the sound of dry wind,while I rotate slowly around on my stiletto balanced axis, both feet like a dancers, pressed together tightly, my arms are now pulled and maintained behind me. The feeling is not as unpleasant as it may seem from my description but rather, I feel I am being asked to surrender my will to their order,and begin to be accepted in it. I find grace in my pose and a feeling again of warmth and well-being spreads over me. If I look upon this same position,from a point of view of fear, I could think I am being handcuffed and  restricted, but no, it is like a game, and they all seem to take enjoyment out of it, and in return give me these pleasant sensations, that radiate from my limbs to my heart, and then back out my fingertips, that are in a clasp behind me.

In an instant, this game of  subtle manipulation is over..

In an instant, their game of subtle manipulation is over, the smaller balls reunite to  the larger sphere again, and it begins pushing gently but firmly against the small of my back, urging me forward, floating me on the air, only a meter or so off the floor. My hands automatically wrap around it, holding it to me, and the sensation is so pleasing, I close my eyes, as we travel down this beautiful mysterious hallway, the large Sphere warm, vibrating in my hands that hold it behind my back. Every now and then it pushes against me, and I travel quicker for a few seconds, feeling it fit to the curve of my lower spine. When it touches me, I feel I want to cry, not even sure what my reasons would be, but I know it is not out of sadness, but rather the realization of my helpless smallness and also how chosen and blessed I am to be living, dreaming, imagining this night. In the end it makes no difference, be it fantasy or a separate reality, I am being changed by experiencing it. Every second I live here, I am being changed.

The heat wraps my nerve endings, passing through me in undulating currents

The heat wraps my nerve endings, passing through me in surging and ebbing currents that I perhaps will never be able to describe in even a tenth degree, just how it makes me respond. Coupling this sensation with the feeling of eyes upon me, recording, captivating, not only visually, but in every way, brings me to see my rare beauty as a human being with limb attachments, voice box, and soul, as seen through the eyes of a being whose shape changes and is not corporal, who is voiceless yet its thoughts are passed to me in my thoughts , and who is very interested in knowing everything it can about me.
“Extend the arms this one, to pass the curtain here, must be for this one’s ability alone ” and as I hear these thoughts, the orb frees itself from me, and hangs back behind, before it returns to where I first saw it resting on a trunk at the far end of the hall.

 My arms shoot out ahead of me instinctively

My arms shoot out ahead of me instinctively, and feeling separated from the sphere, causes me a moment of panic, which I talk down, as I see I am coming to a curtain, a thin gauze that divides this side from another, or so I am guessing. It is like a border crossing, and only I have my papers in order to make it across…or this I hope. The curtain parts for me, as I go slowly gliding into it, through it, but as soon as all of me reaches the other side, I am abruptly placed on my feet, and my solo flight is halted rather jarringly.

 I am standing outside a door, opened a crack to let me glimpse into the other side

 I am standing outside a door, opened a crack to let me glimpse into the room. The colors are so magnificent, deep reds and soft pink, somewhat similar to the room with the beautiful hand holding me tightly to the floor, but here enters light beams of the palest of blue. I try to walk in on my own, but am stopped by a wall that although is invisible, is totally impenetrable. I have seen this a few times, and do not struggle. Simply, I close my eyes and take some deep calming breaths.  Any other action, would be fruitless, and as I slowly open them I see I am inside the room, standing by a window, bathed in light, a small, pinkish orb is resting on my right hand. I am trying very hard to not lose from my memory, all it is saying to me.

 I am not what you think I am

“I am not what you think I am,” its words pour into my mind as if it is speaking from my chest out, “But you also are not what you believe you are. For now it is enough that you learn what I am, and what this will mean for you. I am your intimate, this is what you will call me, and I will call you, mine.. just mine. You have crossed over into our world, perhaps brought over, as yet I do not know. Do not believe I know everything here, as I only know a part, as we all do. We cross over to your side, and many times it upsets things. We are cautious here too, you might cause unbalance, but we accept your presence, as long as you accept our rules.”
“Yes I accept” I answer him, a lump in my throat, reaching out, trying to understand what I just agreed to. I have decided upon calling this entity him, as that is how he feels to me, my intimate feels masculine, and there are no doubts in my mind about that, however all the rest, what my coming here can mean, swirls in uncertainty tinged with apprehension. I am not really sure I want all of this, or any of this, when I laid my head on the pillow and fell into his world, their world.

“I will enter you. Be empty”

 “I will enter you. Be empty,” he says, and before I can even try to imagine what this means, I am lifted off the ground, and at the same time, part of me, I would say almost all of me, is getting pushed out of my mind, by first a hum, then a breath that breathes inside my thoughts, and I am dissolving, fragmenting into I don’t even know, but he is inside me and I don’t have to breathe, my heart could stop and I would stay alive. His force, his life flows into me,and becomes me. Ohhh entry so sublime! I throw my doors open to anywhere he wants to go..and he wanders through me, sees my life and my dreams, lays in my bed, floats over Ismara, paints in his colors the word “mine” and it is like a tattoo inked upon my soul. I am in an empty space of ecstasy, tears bathe my cheeks,  it’s both physical and very spiritual.  I feel him inside of me, all my memories are thrown open to him, and he sighs, deeply moved as he lives one after another, as he lives me while viewing my personal picture album of all I have ever recorded in my memory.
“oh god, oh god, oh god”
Suspended in one long moment of communion with my intimate, time doubles back around, and I feel like we are re-meeting, having been joined before this moment. I surrender in ecstatic breaths, that come out of my open mouth like smoke being exhaled and in a moment of wild improvisation, I turn over on my back and pull his vessel, the small glowing orb close to my face.

In gratitude and feelings of the deepest kind of love, I press the ball to my lips

In gratitude and feelings of the deepest kind of love, I press the ball to my lips, and I kiss my intimate, in such surrender, I empty myself of myself, and there is only one inside my floating shell, my hovering vessel of attachments, and dressings, and it is called “mine-intimate” or maybe “intimate mine” and as I press my parted lips to the pink sphere, his vessel, of round smoothness and reflected light. I feel him leave out of my mouth, and fill up quickly the orb which grows and grows with the floodgates of his being, rushing out of my shell, and refilling his own..Oh, there are no words, to be so filled, and then drained! My tears pour out of me, and I fall down to earth, kneeling in reverence for what was joined together.

I hold him in my hands, on my lap, as if he were an innocent child in my care

I hold him in my hands, on my lap, as if he were an innocent child in my care, stroking and touching the orb, touching the inside, feeling the waves of the energy that filled me and then left me, leaving me dazed and gasping for breath. It has not yet ended, I sense it, and then he says to me, deep inside my thoughts,

I will let you see for one minute what I see. “Press me to your face”

“I will let you see for one minute what I see. Do not be afraid,” then he says to me
“Press me to your face.” I don’t hesitate but pick him up and do just what he asks me to do. Then I see the unseeable.
“Oh my god. It is too much” “It is too much” It is too much”

Oh my god…

“Oh my god, I am not supposed to know this” I cry out and cry into him, into the orb which has turned soft and gelatine-like, now covering most of my face. I am so horrified, shocked, that instead of pulling him off of me, I lean into him even deeper, crying, sobbing, seeing the future, I should never be allowed to see.
“Stop! Please Stop!”
I pull the sphere away and hold it, at arms length, trying to control my heaving sobs. “Please I can’t anymore, please, just let me go back. I want to go back,” I beg him.

Why did you show me this?

“Why did you show me this? There is a long pause, I do not hear his thoughts, and think maybe he is waiting for me to be calm again. The globe turns cool in my hand, and I look at it in such a different way, then I did when I saw the first one, in the previous dream. The globe, the orb, it is not him, it is his vessel, his housing,and transport, and for a short while, I too was that, a vessel for him to house all of his life essence inside. Then for an even shorter time, he was mine… but I could not handle this. I know it sounds so silly, the emotional hysteria of an unbalanced artist, but tonight I am feeling a love, as I have never known. I ask him gently again, my thoughts more quiet and at peace,
“Why did you show me this?”
“I do not know.” he answers me. “Lay back upon the floor, I will heal you”

“How can you not know? Are you as frail and fallible as we are?”

“How can you not know? Are you as frail and fallible as we are?” I look into him,”Oh… can you even imagine what these words you say to me, are doing to me? Oh, they cause me fear and distrust. I trusted you, because I felt you did know what you were doing. It is the reason, I surrendered my will and my corporal body to house you for a few minutes. Are we all blind and guessing, failing, and erring in all lives that exist? Is there not one more perfect than the rest? Surely yours must be more perfect than mine.”
“Lay back,” he repeats “I will heal you.”

He covers my throat with his sphere that begins to glow warm

He covers my throat with his sphere, that begins to glow warm, against my neck.
“Mine, I take away the images that you have seen. I apologize to you for showing you too much. You will remember you saw something, but not what you saw. Keep our rules, guard our secret, and I will see you again. I wish to see you again. I touched your beauty, and it is like no beauty I have seen. Go now, Mine, go in peace, and as you rise back up to your world, we will watch over you. You will be safe.” Close your eyes Mine… Goodbye…”

I do close my eyes, but expect to be in my bed when I open them

I do close my eyes, but expect to be in my bed when I open them, instead, I am lying, floating just below the level where the barrier exists, between our two worlds. I see hands, clasped hands all around me, and then they begin to unclasp, one then the next, starts to slowly break into soft applause. There is that strange music again, and the applause dies down until it stops. I am so drained, I can not even think if this  tribute is for me, or for something having nothing to do with me. I don’t care, I am at peace, and feel myself floating upwards, getting closer to the wall that divides, one life from another.

Like pushing up from the bottom of the pool…

Like pushing up from the bottom of the pool, I rise getting closer and closer to the point where I enter. I am starting to wake up, and there is the mixed feeling of relief and yet nostalgia. I have fallen in love, and there would be no one who could understand it, even if I could speak it. I have fallen in love.

I gently push against the barrier, the hands once again applaud softly behind me

I gently push against the barrier, the hands once again applaud softly behind me, and I feel it is their way today of bidding me well, and saying good-bye with approval. All I need to do now, is close my eyes, and resting my head upon my arm, I close them shut, and when I open them, I am in the same position, waking up in my own bed. This is how easy it is, although it seems to me, it should be more complicated to return from a place so very very far away.
I listen to the sounds of the household, and there are none. It is early, by the light in my windows, so I turn on my own light and begin to write everything I can remember tonight. I don’t think I will use the word dream anymore from this night on, but I will call it something else, maybe just my other life.

I know now that this is not dreamland, where I go to

I know now that this is not dreamland where I go to, but to an alternate world, where love has found me and bound me to want to return again and again. Am I still tempted to confess and relate this all to Ismara? My answer is the last word of my diary entry,
“No”
I close it and put it away.

to be continued…

Posted in Prose Vignettes, The Colored Dreams | Tagged , , , , , | 9 Comments

Part Two~ The Colored Dreams~Dream Diary Entry #1

Posted on May 9, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

I’m falling asleep while it is still light

I invite you to listen to this story read aloud to you in my voice over a selected music track. Just click the .mp3 link to hear it read while you read, or close your eyes and let me take you into my first diary entry.(Karima Diary Entry#1.mp3)

 

I’m falling asleep while it is still light out, exhausted from a stressful day. I came home and decided to get into my pajamas, not worrying if I even sleep through dinner. I’ll grab something, at some point. I almost feel more like I am passing out, instead of just taking a nap, but I have been eating pretty haphazardly, and maybe the only meal I do eat, which is balanced, is when we all sit down together at the table, and that is not every night anymore because of our schedules. Ismara won’t be home until 8 o’clock from her job, so this seems a good time to try to recharge my frazzled and drained batteries. As soon as my body stretches out, I feel as if I am spinning to sleep, not falling slowly, and then just a second later, for it feels like no time has really passed, I am waking up again.

I wake up in my bed but not in my room

I wake up in my bed, but not in my room, as this room is from another place and feels foreign and surreal. I must be dreaming, I conclude as I look at the walls surrounding me, and realize, that never even in any dreams, have I conjured up a place like this. I feel so awake while I sleep, and I even marvel at how clearly I am thinking about all this, how carefully my observations seem to be. I think it is at this point that I realize I am, what they call, lucid dreaming and decide that when I wake up, I will write down everything that I can remember. I sit up on my bed. It is my bed, exactly, except all the color has changed. The carpet the walls, the bedspread, somehow are the same hue, but everything seems as if filtered through a paler blue light that shines in thick beams through large carved openings in the wall. I expect any minute I will awaken in my own bedroom, and then I will try to remember this image, to perhaps sketch it in chalk or pencils while it is still fresh.

I have to consider everything as this dream is very different

 I have to consider everything as this dream is very different, from most of mine, which shift and change so rapidly, I can barely remember them. Ismara one time told me of a vision she had, where she actually thought I was there having it too, as I was part of her dream and it all seemed very real, in a dream-like sort of way. As soon as she awoke, she ran to my room to corroborate it, and of course I had no idea what she was talking about. I am thinking this dream is a vision, and Ismara said that when she had hers, it turned out almost prophetic, a sort of  premoniton, so I will look at everything, remember everything, and then write it all down, as soon as I get back to my awake state. I have a diary that has never been used. I think my Aunt gave one to each of us when we were fifteen, but it never really interested me. Why write about it, if you can live it fresh and not always be under the self ordered rule, that afterwords you must document every day? I think maybe diaries are for people who don’t have very interesting lives, or fear when they are older, will have almost no memories worth remembering. I guess in that case, a diary could be like a buried treasure chest, suddenly uncovered.

I am finding if I stare too long at the floor, for example…

I am finding if I stare too long at the floor, for example, which is heavily patterned, and transparent, yet filled with layers, I start to feel I will fall into a deeper level of this dream, perhaps one where I will not be as lucid, and therefore will not remember much when I wake up. I resist falling in this way. I look back towards the head of the bed, and notice for the first time, there are two pale blue spheres, made of glass or some sort of transparent material. They are sitting there, between the two pillows and I pick them up and get the feeling of them. My first reaction when I hold them, is to almost drop them, as they feel so odd in my hands. They vibrate slightly and go between a solid state, very much like glass, to a state more like pliable rubber or a round helping of over-chilled jello. Their temperature also goes between very warm, to icy cold, and seems to be connected to how fast the spheres are vibrating. I ask myself a question I would never ask myself in my waking life, “Could they be alive?”

I find with a little concentration they respond to my thoughts…

I find that with a little concentration, they respond to my thoughts, and actually begin to float and glide up and down if I imagine they are attached to my hand. I play around with them for several minutes, until I take off my concentration  inadvertently, and they float away, outside of my range of influence to cause them any effect. I watch them fade into the wall textures, almost like bubbles, but where they enter, it seems they stay, forming a new part of the wall, and the very walls themselves seem to spawn new orbs and they appear on the floor or hovering out of reach. If they are alive, they seem to be not independent creatures but something tied to the greater blueprint of the building plan. This world feels like nothing I have ever experienced in dreams. I am so curious about it, and yet a little apprehensive, wondering just how deep I want to go, and if I really could wake myself up at any moment if I feel threatened.

I decide to get up and inspect my surroundings

I decide to get up and inspect my surroundings, and the feel of the floor on my bare feet is like cool glass. I avoid as well as I can the angle of looking down, because vertigo tugs at my balance when I do peer below me, at the endless layers and floor, all semi transparent, yet with patterns and images superimposed. It is mind wrenching. Although the walls look solid, and have three-dimensional bars and tubes, that seem to block the way, when I press my hand against one wall, I find it sort of gives to my push, but at the same time pulls me into it, much like it did to the disappearing spheres. My first reaction is to pull back, as it seems to be a very strong force, and I would lose control if I allowed it to grab hold of me. I take turns, trying the other walls, pressing lightly my palms against them, and testing them. All of them but the first seem to be solid, so I am obligated to overcome my fear and allow the wall to take me through, unless I wish to stay trapped in this small room with only my bed in it, and nothing more

I walk  easily through the wall of the room my bed is in

I walk easily through the wall of the room my bed is in, and it gives way with no resistance, actually pulling me smoothly to the other side. Oddly enough, I do not feel afraid of this process anymore. I keep reminding myself that I am dreaming, and very aware I am too, so that any minute I calculate it is too frightening, I will awaken using the tricks Ismara and I perfected when we were little.  We would pretend we were at the bottom of a pool, underwater and by pushing up hard with our feet, we would reach the surface in a splash, and would be once again awake. I walk a few meters to the other side and peer through a lattice work, almost like French windows, but with tiny thin crosspieces with no glass. The wall is beautiful in pale shades of blue green, but at first it is hard to make out what is on the other side.

The glow of the scene makes it difficult to see clearly to the other side

The glow of the scene makes it difficult to see clearly to the other side, and I press my face into the structure that separates one side from the other. This wall is impassable, feels like steel,  although it looks like it is made out of glass. It does not even budge when I put all my strength against it, trying to push my way in, as I have just learned to do, on the last wall. I position myself in front of a section, which has a large opening, and as I become used to the glare, I see a woman sitting on a couch on the other side. It appears to be Ismara, seated in our conscious world, on the sofa that is on the landing of the house we live in.

I recognize it is not Ismara at all, but myself

 I recognize it is not Ismara at all, but myself, and I catch my breath. “What an odd dream I am having!” but I resist the urge to wake myself up, for a few more minutes. I call out to myself through the barrier, I say, “If you hear me, make me wake up” But I don’t seem to hear anything. I am waiting for something it seems, and I don’t appear to be part of the dream, but somehow outside of it. I see myself over there totally conscious and this makes me ponder until I almost shudder with the effort. If I am here, on this side,dreaming, and I am conscious of it, and I see myself across a divide and I look like I am awake, I perhaps could be over there dreaming, I could be dreaming this moment I am living now on this side. I shut my eyes quickly as I feel disoriented for a second, and when I open them, it is as if what I just thought becomes real, but on one of those deeper levels, I was trying very hard to avoid.

I am now the one on the couch, but this room, like my bed before, is not in my waking world

I am now the one on the couch, but this room, like my bed before, is not in my waking world. I am dressed in clothes I don’t own, just as I saw myself  dressed on the other side of the barrier. I am in the same clothes, and I am wearing fishnet stockings and laced-up boots. I don’t think I own either of those things nor have I ever had them in my closet. I am looking towards a window and I know I am waiting for some kind of sign, or something to happen. I have to make a supreme effort to move my head out of the position I have it turned towards. I feel stilled, and the very air itself fights me to change my position. I am like a cloned copy of a full-length sculpture of myself that someone has set on a couch as a prop simultaneously in two different worlds. I stop struggling to understand at this point, and let my eyes wander over the scene. The colors are magnificent, purples and greens on the bronze leather-tooled couch, against walls of antique pink and rose. The first thing I think about, is how I will paint this scene, and what paints I might use. I allow myself a quick glance below my feet and feel the rush of being thrown quickly off-balance, by the sheer height, clearness and depth of the floors, with many more floors below this one. Heights have always made me reel with vertigo.

No. this is not any room I know, but it has a hauntingly attractive quality for me

No, this is not any room I know, but it has a hauntingly attractive quality for me.
I feel an energy in this room, a presence, but although I can now move my head freely, I see no one, or anything more than this couch and the strange walls, that seem to change patterns, while I am not looking. I imagine music, and I begin to hear what sounds like a piano being cautiously played upon, one note at a time. My bare thighs feel warm against the tooling which I picture is leaving a slight pattern like a temporary tattoo across it. I am overcome with desire to meet someone and maybe have a dream-affair, a nighttime tryst that no one can accuse me of. I am lucid, and I am real, and I wish to control this dream now and feel passion, and to want and be wanted and taken and loved. All these desires that for various reasons, I no longer am feeling in my conscious life. Ahh to dream, I think and let loose all the wanting, all the  passion and pent up feelings that I hold inside like a tightly wound wire. Now I am questioning if these are really my own original thoughts and wants, or if this presence I perceive that blows across the room, sometimes almost underneath me, is feeding them into my mind. I stand up and walk to the middle of the floor and look down. My action is almost a challenge, a dare to whatever is here, to show itself to me, and bewitch me and sweep me over the edge of my guarded passion.

Just hen I feel something grab hold of my ankle

Just then I feel something grab hold of my ankle and jerk me down to my knees.
The power is so strong it almost takes my breath from me and from the entire room. My heart pounds, the beat increasing with each second , but it is not only fear that speeds the pace until I am gasping for breath, trembling with the adrenaline that shoots through me, but longing, dark deep longing, that aches in places, I have consciously tried to bury and abandon.

I am held by a hand, that has come through the glass floor and now moors me to it

I am held by a hand, that has come through the glass floor and now moors me to it. I don’t take a breath. My heart pounds, and my body trembles. The hand holds me firmly by my right ankle, and I am bound in an awkward position, where I can’t really sit back or move, so I just hold myself as steady as I can, and look down to my right below me. I can make out an image of a human hand, but it lays still just a few inches below the glass, yet what I am feeling are fingers, slowly tracing the shape of my ankle, and exploring me, like a blind person touches a face to get a sense and a feel of how they are, beautiful, ugly, balanced or unbalanced, etc. This is what the hand does to me, it captures me and then sends fingers, many fingers that touch my leg, feeling it, tracing it, squeezing it, until I grow faint with desire. In the way the hand begins to massage and squeeze my calf, climbing up to my thigh, I know it finds touching me a pleasant experience. It does it with almost an innocent quality, as if it is not used to touching human flesh from the waking world on the other side of the barrier, and I don’t want it to stop. I close my eyes, and fill up with feeling, hoping it will go on, move higher, and I imagine this hand attached to a beautiful body, one that rises out of the glass floor and overpowers any resistance I might offer, by making me want it to take me. I hear myself saying “Yes..go on!” in a hoarse whisper. I am not sure if I am controlling this dream, or if this is a normal lucid dream at all. Perhaps I am somewhere else, and have no control over anything.

 A warm sensation begins to climb up my body and overtake it

A warm sensation begins to climb up my body and overtake it, while I remain totally passive, but participating, giving up, with no struggle, allowing these hands to take me where they wish to, and just as I am entering into sensations that can not be easily reversed without deep pain of frustrating personal restraint, the fingers stop their sensual journey of discovery on me and just hold me in place, while I begin to feel it is observing me with eyes from under the floor. This drives me into wild undiscovered fantasies, just the thought and although I am clothed, with skirt, stockings and panties, I know this creature has eyes that can see through anything it wishes to, and now what it wishes to see, is me crouched over him, and he looks up at me , into me, and this look sets me up to surrender all that I can and I give him what he wants to see. I know it, I feel he moves me on, watching me and breathing. I hear the breaths in my head..He breathes, and his breath too quickens with my own. My eyes turn up into my thrown -back  head, and if this is a dream, my body feels it as real and I melt all over the glass surface and he watches me turn to liquid and hears me moan. I know this is what he wants from me, and I am powerless to not give it to him. After many minutes held there, even after, I am still motionless, in this difficult position,  then all of a sudden, he lets go of my ankle and I am free.

As quickly as this presence comes, it leaves through the wall and disappears

As quickly as this presence comes, it leaves through the wall and disappears. I feel it  shoot past me, like a cool ribbon of swirling air, and pass through the wall, to parts unknown, and unimagined. I  get up and rush to the windows, if they can be called that, to try to catch any glimpse of it. It feels masculine to some degree, perhaps due to my own sexual orientation, but it feels, “it” too, not limited to any human standards of gender description. It was a curious, and yet powerful entity, that had chosen to explore my own most private inner fantasies, the ones I never talk about or share with anyone, not even Ismara.

“How did this red globe appear on my hand,” I asked so surprised

“How did this red globe appear in my hand?” I ask so surprised, as it is just there when I turn from the window. The feel of it is not the same as the pale blue balls, I had actually been able to manipulate with my thoughts. This red ball is hollow and so light, I almost do not realize I am holding it, until I actually see it in my hand, balanced there. I stand very quietly and almost am afraid to take a breath, afraid I perhaps might drop it. I feel this has been given to me by the entity that held me captive and enraptured.

The air begins to change and electrify

The air begins to change and electrify and I see the floors projecting new images of structures, and shapes that rotate below, causing the effect of making everything seem like it is disintegrating before my eyes. The red orb, starts to emanate a blue light, that changes to smoke, that changes to a strange essence I  can almost perceive as solid. I feel it is saying goodbye, and then I hear a synced chorus of human-like voices, but rather synthesized, not actually human, that chant these words over and over again.
“Take the sphere with you. Try to take it with you. Do take it with you. Take the sphere with you. Try to take it with you. Do take it with you” repeated so many times, the words begin to make no sense, and turn into sounds with no meaning, and I know I am starting to wake up. I clutch the orb protectively, and make my best attempt to take it with me.

There is no sphere in my hand when I awake

There is no sphere in my hand when I awake. There is only the sensation, many sensations of having been part of a world that was somewhere between awake and asleep, but not of either. My first thought is to look for my diary and a pen, and I do this quickly, and begin to write it all down, incorporating every detail I can remember, as they flood into my mind in vivid imagery. I am exhausted, not rested, and still tingle and twitch, my nerves  trying to recuperate, and it is like slowly returning from a deep tunnel under the sea. I know this bedroom, this pen is what I call real but everything I saw and felt entered my perceptions as real too, so very real that I feel moved beyond myself, how I had so quickly surrendered my will to a stronger one I could not even see. I am not sure why it was important to bring the red ball back. The petition of course seems impossible, yet in some way I feel I failed to complete what was asked of me. I write it all, and when I get to the end, where they are chanting, I hear the warning, the admonishment that was surprisingly added to their sing-song at the very end.
“If you tell anyone. You will not be invited back. You will never come back”

I know this is the truth

I know this is the truth. The final words, are final, and I will respect this rule, as I am truly wishing I might return and know more about the different layers of the floors, each one perhaps offering, experiences beyond my experience.  Standing on the upstairs landing, I hear footsteps outside the front door approaching, and I realize it must be Ismara returning from work. I close my diary and return to my room to hide it carefully. I know with her, it is not necessary to lock it up, just if it comes up, tell her it is private, as we have worked out a code for that, so she will understand and respect it. I share everything with her usually, well almost everything but…this…this world..I can not and I will not jeopardize being locked out  forever, because I could not obey the one rule asked of me.

to be continued…

Karima Hoisan
April 9, 2011
©2011 all rights reserved

please see my comment below

Posted in Prose Vignettes, The Colored Dreams | Tagged , , , , | 11 Comments

Oasis Moon

Posted on May 8, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

Oasis Moon
for Umahmad.

You are my other prayer, the one that has never been answered.
You are the fleeting memory that’s getting lost in a circle of reality,
Sacred words uttered with little faith, forehead submitting to the floor,
The repetitive question “why?” the never-to -be- revealed unsolved mystery.

Once upon our time you glided down the streets of the Middle East,
My eyes followed you everywhere, all my dreams included you.
Do you understand why now I must protest this shifting script,
That asks of you to be locked up in slippers and bathrobe,
Thorazined in a room with no view ?

Yes, perhaps for effect, I might have let you get lost for awhile,
If I could have been the Creator and writer of your singular play.
It would have been fitting, as we had all placed a little too much hope in you,
Would have served as a text book lesson of humility,
When you took off to run away.

But like the prodigal son, I would have written all of us to be your father,
Standing on a hill watching you glide across the sands returning.
Knowing that after the opulent welcome home banquet we had prepared for you,
I would lay down by your side, and you would forever end,
this painful lifetime of yearning.

Devils inside, or fate’s bad chemistry, whatever it is some day proven to be,
There is no one steering at the helm, and your ship and me are going down.
Moon from our last Oasis rises, but now we’re both too far away to see,
And you can’t weep for what has been lost, but I can, and do openly,
For what has not been found.

You are my other prayer, the one that has never been answered.
You are the fleeting memory that’s getting lost in a circle of reality,
Sacred words uttered with little faith, forehead submitting to the floor,
The repetitive question “why?” The never-to -be- revealed  unsolved mystery.

Karima Hoisan
Nov.20th, 2010
Finca La Generosa Linc Island  SL
© 2010 all Rights Reserved

Posted in Poems | Tagged , , , | 3 Comments

Cracked Planet

Posted on May 6, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

“In Circuit City below a cracked blue sky…”

~Please Click this Link (Cracked Planet.mp3) It is a sound file you can stream to hear the poem recited by me along with the music of Clint Mansell~ Enjoy!!

Cracked Planet

for Menubar Memorial the artist

In Circuit City below a cracked blue sky,
all the Kings and fiery stampede of horses
cannot re -assemble this mess.
beep* ting ting*  tock tock*
Countdown.
Remember when you were a kid
and you had those weird dreams?
boop* boop* boop*
like water dripping in your sink?
The planets were coming down too close
and leaving their orbits behind.
tick* boop* ping ting*
and you knew that was not right?
Then the whole entire sky opened?
ahhh* gaaaah* oooh*
Countdown. Start to count…down.

If you got a way to get off… get off!
wow* ohhh* yes* god*
B’cause this dying spinning sphere,
Is cracking up and coming to a stop.
So..if you got a way to get off,
jump on it and go!
This orb will be a forgotten rented space,
in outer space.
Who will be left to remember?
ones and zeros…ones and zeros… ones and zeros.
boop* boop* boop* boop*

The experiment is shelved.
It is all over.
It is all done.
ahh* nooo* boop* oh well….*
One conclusion drawn…
If you leave it to the humans,
they will crack their egg
tsssh*tssshhh* tssshhhh*
and cook themselves into the omelette.

All of the love moans
wow* ohh* yes* god*,
of all the words, “Turn right here”  “Do not cross the line” “Now you have done it” “Last Call” “Right at First Light” “Truth in your dog’s eyes” “Humanity”, “Insanity” “Inhumanity” “Sanity”
All the words will go.
The Game starts to get picked up,
sucked up into the broken sky.
Is it over? Did we lose? Is it over?

In The Circuit City below a cracked blue sky,
all the Kings and fiery stampede of horses
cannot re-assemble this mess.
beep* ting ting*  tock tock*
Countdown.
Remember when you were a kid
and you had those weird dreams?
boop* boop* boop*
like water dripping in your sink?
The planets were coming down too close
and leaving their orbits behind.
tick* boop* ping ting*
and you knew that wasn’t right?
Then the whole entire sky opened?
ahhh* gaaaah* oooh*
Countdown. Start to count…down.

Karima Hoisan
May 6, 2011
Virtual Gallery LINC Island
© 2011 all rights reserved

Posted in Poems, Slices of Second Life, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

The Colored Dreams Part Two ~ Chapter One ~Transition

Posted on May 5, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

This post begins Part Two of my small prose series entitled “The Colored Dreams”
Chapter One is a transition, a bridge between Part One and Part Two. I will list the six posts, or chapters, that make up the first part of this story. As it has a linear logic to the story-line’s progression, I recommend reading Part One first, before you begin to read Part Two which now begins in this post under the heading Chapter One Transition. The urls for Part One, in correct order are:

1. The Red Dream
2. The Ship of White Dreams
3. The Candy-Apple Red and Blue Dream
4. The Deco-Pink and Bronze Dream
5. The Turquoise and Green Dream
6. The Orange Dream~The Last Dream

I want to thank my readers, thank you all for your wonderful comments and feedback. You are the major reason, I decided to write Part Two. I hope you will enjoy this second series as much as the first.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Chapter One ~Transition

My name is Ismara

My name is Ismara, and I am on vacation, a sort of forced vacation, promoted and sponsored by my family and close friends, as they all agreed I needed some time on my own, to get away and rest. I lost my twin sister to an endless coma, that was terminated by my family’s mutual agreement, to shut off her ventilator, and allow her to rest. I am sure losing any family member, any loved one might also be this painful, but my grief seems to self-perpetuate, and there is no getting over it and back to my life, as some suggest I should. I am really trying.
We were twins, so this is yet another factor, and I have seen a  counselor who specializes in that, in consoling a twin who has been left behind by the death of the other. To say we were close is just a redundancy. We were twins. When Karima was in the head-on accident, and was hovering between life and death for days, and not stabilized, I did feel her at times, try to reach out to me. Not usually when I was at her bedside, but at night in my dreams I heard her voice faintly. I realize this could have been just small moments of my own wishful thinking, but it seemed she was struggling to survive and regain consciousness. At some point that I wasn’t aware of, there was a change, and it was as if she had moved away to some foreign land and forgotten everything and everybody. We all talked to her, much more at first, and there was a constant stream of sound, and love poured over her, by all who knew and cared for her. We played her favorite music and all of us, had hope that at any minute she might be returned, vital and eager to take her life back from the clutches of the coma that had snatched her away, like a kidnapper who takes a victim, and holds her without ransom.

A tropical paradise was prescribed for me

A tropical paradise was prescribed for me by my best friend. She had come here last year and said it was as close as heaven ever gets to the earth, and rallied my family behind the idea, until one day they slipped an itinerary with a ticket into my hands, and said “Find your peace Ismara”
There is an expression my grandparents always used in Spanish, that goes,
“La calentura no está en las sábanas” which means “The fever is not in the sheets.” Lying in this hammock, staring out at a crystal-mirror of aqua blue, I brought my fever with me I’m afraid, as instead of feeling peace, I am still feeling loss and rolling anxiety. On one level, I see how beautiful my surroundings are, the tropical lushness, the cleansing waves, the star-filled nights, but on another level, all that I see that is beautiful, makes me wish I could share it with her. I lay in hammocks, going from one to another, and try to read, while the words start to form long strings of gray code and quickly do not make sense. I bought a variety of books, mostly self-help ones that were gifts, grief counseling suggestions, etc, but none of them seem to be making any difference, nor can I concentrate long enough to maybe give them a chance to.

None of the words were strong enough to break the fever...

None of the words were strong enough to break the fever I carried inside, no pampering, piña coladas, or deep natural massages, were astute enough to drop my temperature to normal. I wanted that, I wanted everything to go back to normal, but that was the one thing I had to accept would not happen. Normal was thinking of something at the same time with Karima, maybe thousands of miles apart and picking up the phone to call her, and find it busy, because later we would discover, she was doing the exact same thing and calling me. Every twin in a way, is always  emotionally conjoined, sharing heart, head, liver, kidneys, all the vital organs, but not on a physical level, on some other level, that I am not even sure what to call it. I am like that Siamese twin, who barely survived the surgery to separate us, knowing my sister didn’t make it. It’s hard for me to put it into words, but something died years ago, when she left us to sleep in the deep crevices of the mind, where none of us, not even I, her twin, could reach her.

The water supports me in a way nothing else can

The water supports me in a way that nothing else can. I search it out many times a day. We were born under the water sign, and Karima said she felt the tides in her thinking, and that our emotions were as ruled by them as they were ruled by hormones, stress, love, fear, or our basic passions. To hear her voice in my head is to hear my own, and on a telephone, no one could tell us apart. The afternoon she finally was allowed to rest, and I say it this way, as I have come to accept that it was the only compassionate thing we could do, I could not see her. I was the only one, that didn’t go to see her, and I refused to see her again in her open casket. Everyone of course could understand to some degree, because except for our hair color , we were quite identical. Seeing her lying on a hospital gurney, or inside a tufted satin -lined, hardwood casket, would be too much for me,  and too  shockingly familiar, as it would be like peering into my own death, and mourning myself. In some ways I guess that is what I am still doing, and hopefully, all my family is right, here on this tropical island of tranquility and Nature, I will put it to rest.

I had the hope, even with her lying in the coffin, that she would get up

I had the hope, even with her lying in the coffin, that she would get up at any point and join us all in the quiet living-room of the funeral parlor. It was this same hope that kept all of us going for nearly two years, until we finally lost it, after we had agreed to a radical and very experimental therapy to reach victims who had been declared brain dead. The doctor who was still testing it, used a type of rapid- frame color lite -laser and for periods of time, would bombard her retinas with these pure clear tones of various colors. The treatment went on for three months, and we all agreed, that if she showed no signs of improvement, we would let her go, as she would not be coming back. She never responded, and that moment was the last time I actually saw her face. I pleaded with her with all my internal power and thoughts, and voice and gestures to come back to me and just say my name, but there was no change, no miraculous awakening, and I walked out of her room sobbing and  did not look at her again.
She was gone. I knew it at that moment. We all did. The decision was to be taken.

Now a few months later I am in paradise

Now, a few months later, I am in paradise, where even the octopus is friendly and non- aggressive, so they say.
“Ismara take the boat ride, it will do you good”
“Ismara fishing could be just the right thing”
“Ismara, that nice looking man over there has asked about you.”
“Ismara we have a tango class, a turtle walk, a butterfly farm”…etc etc
I know everyone means well, and although I am in my own self locking cage, the scenery outside my bars, is very beautiful. In some ways, I am happy to be here.

Because we were born Pisces, neither of us feared water

Because we were born Pisces, neither of us feared  water or almost anything that lived in it. I was my happiest under water, and perhaps it was the best choice for driving the fever from within me, and allowing me to float and think about what I was going to do. I was not here just to try to find peace and come back sun-tanned, with a smile on my face. No, I had something, a decision that I must make, and it was the kind I felt might define my life. I had to be sure about my choice, because it was one I had pondered and weighed for over two years now.

 Karima began a diary a year before the accident

Karima began a diary a year before the accident. Of course I knew about it, because she told me. She had doodle pads, sketch pads, and a collection of drawings, and paintings, digitalized portfolios of all her work as she was an art student who was to graduate in the Fall. One day I asked her about it, out of curiosity, because I saw it was the only thing she did not share with me. We had an understanding and we both kept it, if something was not for anyone else’s eyes we would declare it “Level Three” Sometimes it was just a conversation not to be passed around, so when I asked her what she was writing in her little book, she said “Sorry, It’s Level Three” and that was the last I asked her of it. She used to write in it almost every morning, and I tried to imagine what she could be filling the pages with, as she had just awoken. Perhaps she waited to write down the last day, on the next morning. There really isn’t any “right way” you must keep a diary, so I let it go as it was just how she liked to do it. When she had the accident, no one touched one single thing in her room. Everything stayed the same, and in place, with linens changed weekly, curtains washed monthly, waiting for her return.

I am not sure why I took her diary...

I am not sure why I took her diary maybe a week after she was hospitalized, but it was never to spy on her. I did it thinking, as I imagined she would have thought for me, if things were reversed. If she had not shared this little book with me, then it was certain she would not wish it to fall into other hands, of family or friends who might somehow stumble upon it. I knew where she kept it and I went in and I took it and brought it back to my own room. To this day, I feel a great guilt over having taken it, have struggled with myself for years, and I am even more plagued now, that I have brought it with me,  still not knowing what I will finally do with it.

I never opened it..

I never opened it. Not two years ago, when she had the accident, and not since she has been buried. It has remained bound and private with her “Level Three”  being respected even beyond her death.
I seek the beach out at night, and walk along the shore, letting my pants cuffs catch the shoreline waves, and I consider I have only two choices, and everything tells me that one must be made right here on this beach, near this campfire. Tonight I will decide what is the correct thing to do.

Karima and I both believed in trusting inner voices

Karima and I both believed in trusting our inner voices, and I laid back on a piece of drift wood and tried to listen to mine. The waves chanted in rhythm to my whispered words. Only two choices possible, and the beat sounded like this
“Burn it…or Read it”
I had done days of soul-searching, I prayed, and I tried to get some kind of sign, I begged her to come to me in any form, and tell me what she wished I would do.
“Burn it…or Read it” I had never once opened it, even though it had no locking device. It was bound in a red sash, so easily unwrapped, that I decided to hide it  in a leather purse, zipped it into a back pocket where it stayed this whole time, until I took it out tonight to bring it with me on my walk.
“Burn it…or Read it”

I silently begged her forgiveness if I were wrong

I silently begged her forgiveness, if I were wrong in doing this, and I opened the diary to the middle and read, just one page by firelight and moonlight. Reading her words was like hearing her voice, and hearing my voice, in my head along with hers, was such a deep moment, a lump caught in my throat and stayed stuck there. I felt her close to me, oh… so close to me! I don’t mean, just in my head, I felt her on the wind, and she was present. You might think me crazy, and blame it on my grief, or my post traumatic stress as some have labeled this sadness, but in that moment when I read only a few words, I sensed her approval for what I had just done. It was almost like having her back, her voice, her thoughts her humor, I knew it was all in there. Inside she had captured the deepest part of herself, not in her paints and her drawings left behind, but in her words that described, her nightly journey’s into an amazing world of colors and mysteries. riddles, and transcendence, that opened its gates wide for her, every night when she slipped into her dreams. This was the diary of her dreams, and now I held it and I pressed her words to my heart.

"Tonight a red ball is placed in my hands..

July-5th “Tonight a red ball is placed in my hands, and I ask the ones who pass through my room, if this holds a special significance for me..or for them. The girl who has been coming and visiting regularly, just smiles. So far I have seen this ball on three different occasions, and always, when I ask about it, soon after I wake up…”

to be continued…

Karima Hoisan
May, 5, 2011
LINC Island
© 2011 all rights reserved

Posted in Prose Vignettes, Slices of Second Life, The Colored Dreams, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | 12 Comments

Pale Veiled Memory

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

Pale spectre in the mind...

Please click on this music link The Poet Acts to listen to, while you read, and let the music set the mood.

Pale Veiled Memory
for U.

Pale specter in the mind of nighttime’s sheer illusions,
You no longer glide through my blowing veiled halls.
Hard reality, sometimes known as truth, has snatched you up
And turned you into boring mortalness, so cold and colorless .

But I remember an open window, when your time was my time,
Where we both laid and dreamed right through it, counting stars,
And our bed rocked upon a sea of excitement and uncertainty,
Your hand pressed to my face, when I was sleeping, when I was weeping.

I Will you, to walk again and meet me in new midnight chambers,
You were the only one in all my life who fit so perfectly,
I grow weary in this quest of  finding what we had, in someone new,
If I could build a cemetery and bury you, then there might be, a chance for me.

Glide to me lithe memory, that holds nothing of reality, I stand waiting.
If prayers are heard, than let my summons be your greatest joy,
To lay with you on satin sheets with curtains blowing wild on summer- breeze,
One last time, may you be mine, then tenderly, I set you free… Oh, pale veiled memory.

Karima Hoisan
May 2, 2011
Renacer Link Island, SL
©2011 all rights reserved

* please see my comment below

Posted in Poems | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments

The Unbalancing Act

Posted on April 30, 2011 by Karima Hoisan

The Unbalancing Act

Enjoy the music (click this link) TINY TEARS which sets the mood of the poem


The Unbalancing Act

My scale is so sensitive...

My scale is so sensitive,

One harsh look or word

Tips me back into the void.

Juggling like a pro...

 Juggling like a pro,

The sad, the bright, and the ugly,

Sometimes makes me fall.

Handle me with care…

Handle me with care,

Because I am as fragile as they come,

Without being reduced to shards.

This glass balance, when it breaks...

This glass balance, when it breaks,

Drops colored tear- shaped prisms

All over the public streets.

The upright passersby stare at me

The upright passersby stare at me
.
They retract their hands

In case I fall towards them.

Under cover, I practice my moves

 
Under cover, I practice my moves.

Behind closed doors, I dupe myself

Into thinking I am improving my act.


Juggling dull blades and my sanity
Has proven to be an unimaginative show
.
The audience bores, leaves me alone.

Karima Hoisan
May, 2006
Jordan
© 2006 all rights reserved

This poem was written in 2006. I was in a poetry workshop at the time and I added this footnote:

“‏
Author’s comments;
Depression is hard enough on the depressed,
‏but those standing near, are left impotent,
frustrated, and disarmed.”

I found this poem in a drawer today and decided to post it, for a few reasons. 1. I could never write a poem like this today, because I am not depressed now.(I am very grateful for that)  2. I know that both poetry and coming into Second Life gave me my self worth back, which is something deeply lost in depression. 3. Having a loved one in this condition, or any mental illness is so very hard. I know as I have seen this “life from both sides now.”





Posted in Poems | Tagged , , | 4 Comments