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superamit:

Two weeks ago I got a call from my doctor, who I’d gone to see the day before because I’d been feeling worn out and was losing weight, and wasn’t sure why.

He was brief: “Amit, you’ve got Acute Leukemia. You need to enter treatment right away.”

I was terrified. I packed a backpack full of clothes, went to the hospital as he’d instructed, and had transfusions through the night to allow me to take a flight home at 7am the next day. I Googled acute leukemia as I lay in my hospital bed, learning that if it hadn’t been caught, I’d have died within weeks.

—

I have a couple more months of chemo to go, then the next step is a bone marrow transplant. As Jay and Tony describe below, minorities are severely underrepresented in the bone marrow pool, and I need help.

A few ways to help:

If you’re South Asian, get a free test by mail. You rub your cheeks with a cotton swab and mail it back. It’s easy.

If you’re in NYC, you can go to this event my friends are putting on.

If you know any South Asians (India, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal, Bhutan, Maldives, or Sri Lanka), please point ‘em to the links above. Thank you.

jayparkinsonmd:

My friend Amit Gupta founded my favorite photography site Photojojo. A few weeks ago, he was diagnosed with leukemia. Amit is one of the nicest, most genuine, most creative people you could ever meet. Prior to founding the awesome Photojojo, he also co-founded Jelly in 2006 in NYC, a coworking community, that’s now spread to 60 cities across the world and helped spark the coworking revolution. It looks like Amit will need a bone marrow transplant quite soon. We can help him with that.

tony b:

Unlike blood transfusions, finding a genetic match for bone marrow that his body will accept is no easy task. The national bone marrow registry has 9.5 million records on file, yet the chances of someone from South Asian descent of finding a match are only 1 in 20,000.

This is where we come in. We’re going to destroy those odds.

How? By finding and registering as many people of South Asian descent as we possibly can.

Tests are easy– a simple swab of the cheek. If you’re a match, the donation involves an outpatient procedure. It’s not fun, but it’s not dangerous either. And doing it could save a life.

We are encouraging anyone of South Asian descent to take a test to see if you’re a match.

You can get a free test by mail, or, if you’re in New York, you can join us Friday, October 14th for a special party to rally support.

We’ll have test kits on hand at the party, as well as music, booze, and maybe even a photo booth. It will, for the first time, combine a House 2.0-style party with a New Work City-style party, and if you’ve ever been to either, you know they are always something special.

Please spread the word and please do everything you can to help Amit beat leukemia. He’s a superstar.

Much thanks to Tony and pals for organizing this event, and EVERYONE who’s been tweeting and reblogging.

Please help get the word out any way you can. My life quite literally depends on it.

something old.

Daylight Savings

Tuesday

A single, bipolar beat, while I watch escalator conversations: lined-up, authoritative, the premonitions of brevity, of heading somewhere, all contained and momentary. A layered, anticipated climax and linoleum heels; flashes of other destinations- there is nowhere I want to go here.

You were so straightforward this morning, an unfamiliar clarity. Maybe it was our united purpose- a vignette illusion that we were constructing a stronger base: stagnant, or ‘adult’, maybe.

What was it that changed my mind?

It was your unfussy cereal, the sharing of your coffee, the agreed realization that now I could wake up on weekdays, it was relief, your terrible relief… The gusty afternoon in which you stayed in the kitchen because I was angry now, and I asked you to. The doctor’s eyebrows that hardly raised, the table that smelled of chemicals, wax. His dusty dulled clock kept moving forward and told me nothing of endings.

I wanted to know all about endings.

Wednesday:

The newspaper said nothing of yesterday, the world had other things to cover, catastrophes that left loud tremors. And me, I sat wondering how something so weighted could leave so little a mark, suddenly realizing how ignorant I must be to all that is felt around me: the things we feel that somehow evade any physicality, any materiality. I walked in circles around the apartment, if only to give the illusion of focus, as if the movement of particles could provide a shift in perspective, could bring the comfort I needed- the affirmation that my change of mind made sense in some larger, immaculate way, believing if I tried hard enough I could travel inwards to some deeper well of reason.

The first day of Spring

Eventually, my decision became me: the sense I had felt momentarily collided with my mindset, consolidated, resided in my skin. The affirmation was never noted in text, never formally compared to the fragmented and subjective passage of time, but I swear exactly a week later my doubt stopped teasing, my resolve quit faltering, as I kept thinking back to the cyclical movement of the hateful escalator, the angle of the foodcourt from the lobby, the keys in the door, the slamming, hands shaking at the traffic light, the passing of playgrounds, the families.

The coordination of purpose so completely shattered somehow had left nothing amiss.

And later, under pressed white sheets, I kissed soft palms to your divergent eyes, and knew nothing about endings, still, in a world that has only offered slight moments of cooperation within its taunting sphere of synchronicities.

too many words

have been made soft by nerves.

a cover of Wonderwall that's actually kinda neat

(mostly because of the postal service and radiohead)

i don't believe that anybody feels the way i do about you now.

#wonderwall #remix

at least she misses me too.

too much archived angst- not enough gratefulness.

i am lucky to live here.

inspiration struck right before bed, when i'm sitting here, dressed like a flight attendant, not ready for sleep, not ready for work tomorrow, not ready to talk to anyone.

today.

food regained some flavour and was edible.

i stayed awake till dark.

i like what you've done

with yourself.

all i hear is blah blah blah blah blah

can you just tell me everything? i want to know you. i love you as much as any of my exes. i just want to know you. i know there's stuff you dont tell anyone. if there's one person you can tell, it is me. it is me and i want to help you. you avoid this. you avoid anything and i just want to hear it all. no, i don't just talk about myself. that's not true. okay, fine, i like to talk about myself, i like to talk to you. i thought you knew i cared? that's not true, i always ask you how you are. okay, maybe i haven't, but you should just know i care. there's something you need to tell me. i don't know what it is, i'm not getting at anything necessarily. i just want to help you with all these things you need help with. no, nothing in particular, i'm not saying you're damaged. i just want to hear it. can we get coffee soon? and just talk about everything? i've wanted to say this for two years. i don't know what i'm saying. i know myself, ok? i know that i'll be okay. will you be okay? let's talk soon, okay? let's hang out more? what about me, if you go to london? what will i do? no, that's not true, i try to stay friends with you when i have a girlfriend. i don't only call you when im single. okay, maybe it seems that way, but that's not the way it is. okay maybe that's the way it is, but i love you, okay? promise we'll talk soon, okay?

#zzzzzzzzzz #blah blah blah

scattered thoughts

i feel like getting stupid drunk with a group of strangers.

funny, on thursday i will be getting secretly stupid drunk with a group of strangers aka staff. operation turn down any and all awkward sexual advances in lieu of making doe eyes at the one taken and intriguing person across the table.

i know he knows i know he knows. meh. nothin to loooseeeee but dignity, and dignity can't easily be lost. face can. dignity is innate, and if i have a strong agreement with myself to not begrudge any uninhibited, subtle and slightly delusional stupidity then whooo's gonna blame me?

beyond my upcoming idiotic encounters, i feel like muggy rooftops and deps. i wish i could fly to montreal for the last few weeks of summer. drink silly amounts at oap and be in a heat-stroken happygolucky daze with gaby and everyone else. so many insignificant relationships that i could nurture into something more. if i gave a fuck, i guess. if i cared as much about getting to know these people as i cared about self-improvement and rest.

i don't know what im doing with anything. "you're looking too far ahead" says anna, but anna gets by without thinking. she just lives and is, and goes about stifling her realer worries that sometimes come out fragmented and fleeting in our shared intimate moments. those moments are now equally fragmented and fleeting, coated so heavily in nostalgia and guilt that they resemble something far different than friendship and bonding.

am i looking too far ahead? maybe. am i craving drunken nothingness as a convenient procrastination of any substantial decision making? yes.

i miss my best friend, i miss my best friend, i miss my best friend.

#poorly written #brain diaherra #blah!

i feel like shit.

sitting in the over-lit conference room, my fingers are shaking. the light tests us for predisposition to seizures, flickering until a headache pounds behind my brows. are we done here yet?

the distaste is stronger than i anticipated. the air seems thick with our premeditated dislike for our mediator. we are an entity of two, never three. the fact that this conference was called at all has us spitefully plotting our further retreat.

with only strip-malls and billboards in view, it is hard to imagine that we could create our own customized reality removed from the whims of others. the thrall of nature is nearly laughable - no one here finds pleasure in anything organic. the joy on the attendant's face at the buzz of some ad on the radio was enough to make my stomach churn.

we're not fogged down with feelings of superiority; the sentiment is something far more nostalgic. i think the hatred stems from a realization that at our most indulgent -drowning in material and credit - we were becoming boring. we'd toss fliers across the kitchen counter, mark down reminders of sales and events. our calendars spoke to our concern for items and the accumulation of wealth. we talked with each other less. i knew very little about you, then.

now, the sight of Walmart's ads, telling the world that plush, plump children should be adorned with clothes mimicking adult trends, evoke more nausea than chemo ever did. the efficiency with which my mother spends and yet the persistence with which she'll swear she is lacking in the things she needs, serves as a helpful, if heart-wrenching, reminder of how i no longer want to live.

i had cancer once, and it probably saved me. i had cancer and all my rooms were white and i never missed the linoleum in our kitchen or the art on our walls or the gleam of my windshield after you took it through the carwash for me. romance, then, was efficient and costly. i'm so happy you changed.

escape is nothing short of salvation, this much i feel sure of.

the severance will be small, to spite us, although ironically the discrepancy between the sum we deserve and the one we'll receive aligns with our new allegiance to simplicity.

are we done here yet? fine, i am rushing us. i still can't relax here, in the midst of unfriendly reminders. old habits don't die, you'd always say defiantly. while our drastic change in lifestyle speaks to contradict this belief, there are traces of truth in your statement. i know i have trouble slowing down.

when the cancer was strongest, i envisioned blood cells racing to each part of my body. my veins were freeways and anything that entered my body was swept up in the race, battling through the traffic of toxins that threatened to kill me. it was so fitting that my potential demise could be symbolized by frantic travel.

the clipboard snaps shut. i am meant to sign my name on the paper, right below yours, binding us to our agreed decision. it feels almost like a contract of marriage, but we are marrying stubbornness and our resolve to protest the aspects of our company (city, society, country) that we despise and feel irredeemable.

a name on a page: something so finite and yet seemingly insignificant. signatures are frighteningly given all the credibility in the world. just one signature can change everything.

my hands still shake, betraying my excess of nerves. the light flickers faster. i hold my breath and sign.

to the attendant, seconds before the door clicks behind us: we won't be back, we promise. and so we leave.

FOOT IN MOUTH?

FEET IN MOUTH.

wordswordswords (my grumpiness has not yet lifted).

i've felt the tension: palpable and remorseful, fine. the sense of longing was all reminiscent of archaic love stories, folkloric in its simplicity and degradation. (i've been reduced to wanting).

"i’ve wanted for something bigger than myself, i’ve wanted for things simpler than my present life. i lack simplicity and meaning"

it comes back to words. you spoke so pretty to me, and to others so pretentiously. we need consistency, accuracy: words used to convey feeling, words used efficiently.

words for the sake of words lose all their weight and impact.

we should all write with soul and little technique. show us something true and honest,

not meticulously crafted to reflect a mind that keeps all edges sharp, keeps all thoughts acute.

your poetry reads like a parody of the dictionary. your poetry reads like a parody of your favourite sleepless self, slaving over an insignificant ten-page essay, consumed by phrasing and the fated prize of praise.

burnt out ugly.

i apologized so i could stop being sorry:

i get to HATE you now.

I like people too much or not at all. I’ve got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them.

Sylvia Plath

simonarmstrong

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