A Request!!

Hello fellow human beings!!

Thanks for checking out this blog and your extremely kind comments. If you like what you read here, it would mean a lot if you could follow the blog by clicking follow in the upper right hand corner [I think you need a gmail account]. Also, your comments mean A LOT to me! So regardless of if you hate something, have suggestions on how to improve a piece, or have other feedback, I'd love to hear it [a simple you're an amazing writer will suffice too;)]. All you have to do is click "comment," which can be found below each post and choose Name/URL from the drop down menu (don't need to type in the URL) and VOILA! I'll know what you are thinking! Also, I'd love to read some of your stuff as well:)!

Out of Love

4/12/07

No matter how loud the lilting melody of your flute, you can not force me to follow you to the edge of reason nor accompany you as you leap over the cliff of insanity. I will not, can not, should not. What happened is the past. Live in the present, in the moment, in a time where "we" are now extinct. Don't dwell on what was, but what is, because what was is now no more. Get used to hearing that. we are no more. Embrace it, touch it, see it, hear it, feel it in your soul. And then, move on. Find another special someone, your soul mate. Rebuild the bridge of eternal love with her, this time tending it, watching it, making sure it doesn't collapse nor become consumed by your short lived passion. Every once in a while, make sure to lower your facade, let out the inner you, the true you. Don't gild your insecurities with a flashy air of confidence. That, yes that was my mistake. I should have stormed in to your life, unexpected, unannounced, like the warm thunderstorms of summer, while you soaked to the bone, searched furiously for your umbrella of protection. Then I would have been able to see what I really was falling in love with. A coward. Don't worry, I'm strong now, I'll take the blame; with you shirking responsibility, someone has to take it anyway. It was my fault. Not yours. After all, it takes two to fall in love. I should have realized right away, we were misfits, but instead I chose to entertain the idea of black and white, yin and yang. But I know better now. It should be yin and yun, black and gray. So blow your pipe like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, and I promise, I swear on the relationship we once had, I will not coming chasing behind you as you leap over the cliff of insanity. I already did that once, and you, as you stood on the brink, weren't there to catch me. 

The Novel

***I wrote this on a VERY long plane trip to India when I was in high school. My goal was to start writing a mystery novel. I created this incredibly attractive protagonist. I wanted him to be a manly man! During the flight I read the in-flight magazine which had an article about the Brooks Brothers, a clothing company that sells high quality suits. Turns out my protagonist shops there. Years later, when I read this again, I realized that in my attempt to make him manly, I had made him a little too tall. He had been almost seven feet! Hahaha!! In this version, his growth has been stunted to that of a more average human being! Also, due to his lack of a name, he has been named Jonathan Smith (so boring, I know!!)***

It was an ordinary day in Michigan! The wind gently swayed the leaves, causing them to flutter and gently fall onto the colorful disarray below. Far off in the distance, innocent childhood laughter could be heard, followed by loud crunches as kids dove into piles of leaves. None of this was noticed by Jonathan Smith, who was in a state of deep slumber.

After days of searching for clues, he'd found an unnoticeable spot in the middle of Michigan's famous woodlands. This would be his home for the next two to three days. Life as a detective had taken its toll on Jon mentally. He wasn't as trusting as he used to be, and always doubted the credibility of his witnesses. Life, well his job, had made him this way. Yeah, they say life always gives you choices, but unfortunately fate doesn't. It was this fate that had led him to where he was today.

As the sun began to dip below the horizon, Jon jolted out of his sleep; he frantically looked around, trying to reorient himself, trying to remember what he was doing here. As soon as he remembered, he dragged himself out of his sleeping bag and walked over to his sports bag, still unsteady on  his feet. He grabbed a bottle of shampoo, a toothbrush, and toothpaste as he made his way to the nearby stream to brush his teeth. Then he stripped down and surrendered himself to the coldness of the water. It felt so good on his skin, refreshing. It reminded him of his childhood. During the happy times. STOP! Forcing himself to forget the past, he quickly rinsed his hair and stumbled out of the water, drenched to the bone. He walked over to his bag and grabbed his suit. He would need this to blend into the the crowd at Milan. It was about a five mile walk from here, but he was young and fit. He could easily make it in an hour and a half. This would allow him to arrive just in time for the late hour rush at Sandra's, the local nighttime hangout.

It was good he was wearing one of his new lightweight suits, custom tailored by the Brooks Brothers. Made for the heat and those long summer days, the ingenious combination of lightweight wool, Lycra, and polyester would prevent from getting too hot. As an added bonus, his wrinkle-free shirts wouldn't wrinkle on his journey.

The black suit framed his six foot four body very well. His green shirt matched the green in his hazel eyes perfectly, and the two button suit contrasted with his tan skin and dark brown hair. The richness of the green shirt and black suit highlighted his cheekbones and Roman nose. Let's just say he didn't look like a twenty-six year old that had gotten dressed in the dark.

Self-Forgiveness

9/16/2007

**It seems I wrote this before I discovered what paragraphs were ;) **

Viciously, she attacks the eight legged creature, the arachnid. She doesn’t particularly enjoy rain, but if the superstition holds true and she manages to get her hands on the daddy-long-legs, it was going to pour tomorrow. Well it might not. She wasn’t going to kill it. Just a simple, possibly survivable flush down the toilet, although secretly she hopes not. The dirty deed done, she returns to her meticulously clean kitchen, her one accomplishment in life. Well that and marrying well. Feeling a sudden cold breeze on her arms, she unrolls her sleeve, while walking over to the thermostat to raise the temperature. Dinner. “What should I make for dinner,” she asks out loud, desperate to hear another human voice amidst her large, lonely home. But the only reply is silence. Her eyes fall upon the frame, the only lasting souvenir of their carefree happiness. The laughter, the comfort, the joy, the anticipation, the expectation of creating a family. A real family, not two people in love, ageing rapidly. Ha. That was true irony wasn’t it? Rapidly ageing people and their rapidly ageing love. But kids weren’t a part of their destiny. Her husband had never pryed, had for once trusted her. For that she was thankful, because to give an explanation, that would have been the final act, the ultimate confirmation of.. of.. Well none of that mattered anymore. What was done, was done. Chicken and spinach enchiladas. Her husband’s favorite. Perhaps with a glass of chardonnay or red wine, they really had to start thinking about their health. As an appetizer, perhaps a chilled fruit salad that would aid her body for the battle soon to come, with its plethora of vitamins. How could she have been so stupid? No. Now wasn’t the time. Time was running out; for dinner of course. Her husband would be home within hours and she still had a lot to do. She ambles over to the fruit basket, her hands groping for the ripest fruits for what was going to be the world’s best fruit salad. Some nectarines, oranges, peaches, strawberries from the fridge and grapes. She washes each piece of fruit with ease, lovingly, tenderly, aware that within minutes each will lie in front of her, maimed and mutilated. She imagines them gasping for air, pleading for their life. No. No. They’re fruits, they aren’t alive. Not like her. But soon you won’t be either, a little voice whispers. Miserable, she starts attacking the innocent fruits. Fervently she peels, slices, and chops the fruits to perfection. Breathless she stares at her masterpiece, then begins to rinse and soap the counter down. One dish down, one more to go. She pulls out two cans of mushroom broth, the frozen spinach, and some boneless chicken, stirring it all together in a pot. Some salt and pepper to taste and then ladles the mixture over the enchiladas, stopping only to lick her fingers and savor the smell of the rich aroma emanating from the pot. She then gently places the pan into her preheated gourmet oven and starts the daunting task of cleaning the kitchen yet again. She works tirelessly to a silent rhythm, each measure punctuated with the thud of the dishwasher door, the clatter of pots being put away, or the clanging of spoons. Slowly she pulls off her apron and eases herself onto the couch. Immediately, her hand reaches for the remote control. Control. If only she’d had control that night. Repressing the thought, she mindlessly clicks through the channels, trying to kill time before it kills her. Waiting for her compassionate husband to come home. The silence presses in on her, sending her cryptic accusations which are soon shunned away by the gentle murmur of the garage door as it opens. Relieved, she gets up to set the table, pours out the wine, and then rushes to the door to greet her husband with a kiss. They speak in subdued tones, in the manner of couples comfortable with each other’s presence, forgiving of one another’s flaws. He sits at the table, admiration for the meal seeping through his eyes, exhaling praise instead of air at the end of every bite. Satisfied and without complaint, grateful for his beautiful wife. She stares at his hands. It was the hands she’d fallen in love with. The long skinny fingers, the well-manicured nails, the hands of a man who cares. His hands had been the exact opposite, rough, calloused; maybe that’s what had attracted her. Her husband’s touch was familiar, comforting, and safe. His had been intense, stimulating, filled with promise, adventure, and excitement. But look where it had gotten her. She, who prided herself on her clear logical thinking, had fallen for his charm, his easy chuckle, his need to have fun. That night had been a night of many mistakes. She’d gotten drunk with a stranger, flirted with another man, and then had sex with him, without a condom. If only she’d been fortunate enough to have had her mistake end there. Couldn’t there have been a warning, a fairy godmother, anyone or anything watching over her, waiting to inform her as soon as she’d crossed the line? But this wasn’t a fairy tale and a truly happy ending wasn’t meant to be. She would have been fine if her mistakes had disrupted even ruined her life, but she should have known, mistakes of such magnitude didn’t disappear quietly but left a lasting mark. Hers had marked their marriage, leaving her dream of having a family discolored. As soon as she’d found out she’d contracted AIDS she’d known it was up to her to put an end to her cascade of mistakes. She’d decided that putting an innocent child in the path of AIDS was one mistake too many. She could still remember the agony her story had ignited in her husband’s otherwise calm eyes. She’d expected him to scream, yell, react in some way, if not to her affair then to her announcement that they would never have any children, or at the very least to her declaration that she’d contracted AIDS. But he’d said nothing. He’d just looked at her with shock and excused himself, returning hours later, poised, full of understanding and forgiveness. He’d even willingly shouldered some of the blame, admitted that his business trips took him away from home for longer than he’d expected them to. And not once, had he asked her why or with whom. To him, it was enough that she’d lamented. But his unconditional understanding made it harder for her to forgive herself. So now, as she gazes across the table, her view obstructed by the mirror of guilt, she sees what she wants to. She sees a fragile marriage hastily taped back together instead of a marriage cemented securely in understating, love, and most importantly, forgiveness. Her insecurity forces her to make one last mistake; this one is the most detrimental. And the only person that can provide a solution, offer her forgiveness, exonerate her completely, is her. 

An Ode to the Old Women in my Life

2/2/11

**The following piece is a conglomerate description of a few special old women I've known in my life.**

She wore a long maxi with a long shawl draped around her shoulders and over her head. Her ears framed with holes around the perimeter, were no longer adorned with tiny gold earrings, instead holding just a large gold stud with a vertical chain draped over the top of her ears. I'd always thought those were the most elegant earrings, even though they felt out of place on me. To me, they'd always been a bold fashion statement, one particular to my grandma. A statement that easily rivaled Marilyn Monroe's brilliantly red lipstick.

After dinner, she would sit with one leg curled under her, chewing supari and chunna. Staining her wrinkly lips with an autumn orange sheen. This ritual was one I'd seen many times--tiny vials and jars were removed from a small silver box with great care. The shiny green paan leaves were unfolded, glossy side up, and the various concoctions spread onto them. Once this was done to her satisfaction, she would slowly chew each morsel, savoring it. I'd asked once if I could try some. I couldn't.

Despite her age, her calloused hands were precise and nimble. She could out chop my mother any day. The kitchen, actually any part of the house was her domain. The grace with which she stirred the pots, the speed with which she was able to mix the exotic blend of spices--her innate ability to add the precise approximation of salt and cloves--I swear it was intuition. A mere drop of any gravy or dough gave her enough hint to determine what was missing...

Foreign Graduation

2/24/07

He climbs onto the stage, her father
brown skin gleaming with sweat
hands twitching from nervousness
love conquering his whole being and radiating out of his eyes
searching for the one thing of utmost importance to him,
his daughter.

Composed now, he opens his mouth
but his intended speech doesn't come out
in broken English, he attempts to explain what his daughter means to  him
but the only way his heavy accent allows him to express his love
is through the unclear metaphors of his daughter's college application process.

But if one cares to listen closely enough
the tenderness amidst those apathetic words can be heard
a poetic melody flowing from his lips
his face crinkles into a smile as he catches his daughter's eye
"I love you," he thinks
but the audience hears, "and then she applied to.."

He may have been unable to successfully convey his feelings
but that's alright
what he didn't say, can be seen
his actions, hurried, worried, and aggravated
reek of a man worried about his daughter.

He stumbles, awkwardly mingling with the guests
his eyes never straying off his daughter's face, his pride and joy
he makes sure everyone is well fed, makes polite conversation
feeling pity for everyone he talks to
because he knows no one has a daughter anything like his
to him, she is all that matters.

He has a daughter
she is beautiful, smart, and funny
his little girl
as long as that smile never strays from her face
as long as tears never come into her lovely brown eyes,
his world will continue to spin.

But the worth lies in the eyes of the beholder
some see love in that man's every action
forgiving his flaws, noticing the love and sincerity behind his every word
filling his every breath
but some see something else.

Some see,
a man with unruly hair
dark skin, broken English and horrible taste in clothing
a man that by speaking in "English" manages to alienate only the native English speakers in the crowd
somehow converting his words into that of some Indian language
even though the words are distinctly English.

As he climbs onto stage, he seems to forget it's a grad party
instead of speaking about his daughter
he uses incomprehensible jargon due to the misplacement of his thick accent in the current setting
he speaks about how much he spent on college applications
rather than about his love for his daughter.

His every action depicts that of an immigrant
his manners worse than that of "primitive" men
he attempts to mingle in the crowd
his eyes continuously straying from place to place
repeatedly pausing to linger at an ugly girl for no reason.

He harasses the guests, always speaking with a frown of worry on his face
aggravated, he loads more food onto each guest's plate
his eyes appearing to appraise the amount of food consumed by each person.

His eyes glaze over
as if calculating the cost of the party
assessing everything from the cost of the hall to
the cost of his daughter's education.

Who knows why he threw the party
just like him, his daughter isn't much to look at
dark sin, dark hair, dark eyes
with the same awkward gait as her father
she mumbles nonsense to each guest.

None of this seems to matter
because in the end
the worth of something lies in the eyes of the beholder.

Guided Imagery #3- Unfinished (Tropical/Ocean)

5/31/09

You lay in the warm sand, as the sun caresses your face. The breeze combs through your hair, playfully pirouetting against your skin, stroking you from head to toe. As if in tune with your heartbeat, the waves crash against the shore, playfully colliding with the smooth cliffs bordering the shoreline. Brightly colored birds murmur, energetically flying from tree to tree, without a care in the world. You can just lay there forever, measuring time by the position of the sun. Your eyes travel up the azure blue ocean, sparkling like diamonds in the crisp light, to the lapus lazuli colored sky. The white clouds swirl through the sky, their wispy tendons creating snow white curlicues up above. 

A Poor Ethiopian Boy

Ribs showing, he trudged after her, nudging her, his sad eyes in constant search for food. mercy, or both. The stench of his sweat, grime, and urine wafted off of his malnourished body. His cleft lip distorted his handsome face, his body looked like a dilapidated hut, his bones like termite festered wood, about to collapse from the weight of his translucent black skin. A track of dried tears could be seen trailing south from his eyes, one for each loved one he'd lost, their memories replaced with these visible salt tattoos. He occasionally stopped to sniff the litter along the path, in hopes of stumbling upon a discarded sandwich or money. Occasionally, someone would kick him aside, others thinking such behavior to be inhumane, settled for verbally abusing him instead. After 18 hours of stumbling from here to there, in the grisly heat, he'd finally collapsed. Dousing his hopes for a meal with the dirty water he had to drink. Some days he was so thirsty, sweat refused to tumble out of his over dried pores, his dull skin flaking off at the lightest touch....

More Unfinished Stuff with an Indian Flair...

Not sure when this was written (but most likely sometime between 3/2010 and 2011)

Last night's biryani and my breakfast of chai and roti churns in my stomach, slowly crystallizing like a brick of butter. I feel weighed down, unable to move, unable to escape. My forced smile remains in place, steady, firm. I try not to flinch when he sits beside me, because I shouldn't. I can't. But the betrayal lingers on my mind, burrowing itself into every thought, trying to express itself in my eyes. But I blink back these tiny, wet secrets, with enough salt to burn. My hand transforms into a fist, my fingers clenched tight....

-------

The sliced onions were stirred into the besan mixture and dropped by the spoonful in the sizzling oil. The gentle patter of rain drops against the windows reminded her how if this had been 19 years ago, her children would have run in screaming, drenched to the bone after playing outside in the gentle summer rain, for her garma garam (warm) pakode, that they would then dip in the icy, cold mint chutney. Burning their tongues in excitement. But now her children were grown and far from home. These pakode were a way to honor those times, to help her cope, to help her escape into the past, when she selflessly gave everything up for the happiness of her children. The sixth chime of the new, ancient looking grandfather clock she'd insisted they buy because it reminded her of the one she'd had growing up with in India, jolted her out of her reverie. She scrambled to open the windows and turned on the exhaust fan to help the fumes escape. At least one of them would make it to freedom. As she tidied up, she heard the garage door open and she ran to get him a glass of ice cold water, checking the temperature with her wrist first. He habitually accepted her offering, so accustomed to the service that a single thought of gratitude didn't even enter his mind. Ratna resumed her kitchenly duties, setting the table with the warm pakode and mint chutney, along with dal, chawal, and sabzi, before requesting her husband to join. Without a second thought, Aman heaped the food onto his plate, complimenting it as he ate. He asked her about her day, paying partial attention and then told her about his. Four minutes later, silence seized the table, unannounced, lingering until the end of their meal. Not waiting for Ratna to finish, Aman went to wash his hands and tend to his computer. Ratna tidied up and retired to the comfort of the family room. They were two strangers--strangers she had met at the VT train station. She didn't remember too much of what they had looked like. All her....

More Guided Imagery- Weightlessness

***Written sometime in Spring '08***
   

         The leaves are delicately rustled by a breeze composed entirely of your worry. Your worries drift away to far off lands, leaving you with a feeling of weightlessness that you've never experienced before. Without worries, you are no longer anchored to the ground. Even gravity has lost all effect over you. Clouds shaped like wispy cotton balls sail by. The rays that stream from the sun feel tangible against your warm skin, floating along your legs and arms, their sole mission to keep you warm. You lay on the soft grass, grass with blades specially designed to cushion every contour of your body. You hear the frail chirps of birds, newly hatched as a tribute to spring, a new beginning. You stare around you at the awe-inspiring variety of trees, the distinct shades of green mesmerizing you, pulling you in closer and closer--forcing you to part with the heavy baggage you always carry with you. Baggage that contains pain, unfulfilled desires, fear, and sorrow. As the green grass and the green leaves hypnotize you, they force you to clear your mind of all the thoughts that have thus far inhibited you. You are finally able to see everything clearly. There is a new crispness, a new edge to everything. The world comes to you in images sharper than you've ever seen before, the leaves of the trees aren't just green. Rather now you can see the other hues. The sparkling jades, the dull moss, the pine and dark forest greens, mixed with the drab olives and the vivid emeralds and harlequin greens intertwined within the various branches of the trees. The blue of the sky is no longer the stereotypical sky blue found in a Crayola box, but rather a cool icy azure. The clouds that drift by lazily, are white with splotches of gray, set awash by the almost translucent yellow light from the golden sun. The trees continue to rustle, each draft of wind carrying your worries further and further away. You begin to feel lighter. A squirming black bird catches your eye. High in the trees it uncomfortably stretches its wings. The breezes seems to envelope the bird, just as you realize the black bird is a physical embodiment of all that has ever inhibited you. Slowly, it expands its wings majestically and soars off into the sky. Higher. Higher. Higher. Disappearing far off into the distance, until it turns into a black shadow of oblivion, unimportant. Freeing you from everything. Releasing your soul that has been held captive. Now you are free. 

More Unfinished Beginnings- I'm starting to notice a trend here...

8/31/10

I don't trust easily, but you've been given clearance to all the levels. I await the day you betray me, because then I will finally be able to understand all that poetry about trust and betrayal.

*** I can't remember what or why I wrote the bottom piece. I think it was supposed to be from the point of view of a celebrity's agent.. I'm not sure though.***

The lack of viscosity in her tears helped ease them down her cheek in a never ending stream of water. Due to malnutrition, even her tears had lost their salinity. She was a malnourished bitch. So what if she didn't land this gig? With millions sitting in her account, it's not like she needed it anyway. Well actually, the way she went through her money, maybe she did. I tried to keep the bitterness out of my thoughts, but the thing is, if she'd really worked for the money, I wouldn't have cared. But money was thrown at her every time she lost a pound, took off another item of clothing, or lowered an innocent girl's self esteem...

Unrequited Love

***Written sometime between 2010-2011. The aim of this piece is to play around with the movement of the words on the page by having the actual format of the poem add to the meaning of the poem.***

YOU have been lingering in my mind all day
I tried to close you out but you seem to have made a secret entrance into my heart
Is this what love is?
I've heard that when you love someone and I mean really love someone with every cell in your body
Their name is on your breath
and their eyes vividly peer into your soul

So what do we have?
Is it lust? Convenience? Infatuation?
Or are we both yearning for the unattainable
Perhaps we just want to play with fire
See how far this can go
See how far the boundaries can be pushed before one of us falls

Falls
     In
        Love

How long can this farce be labelled a friendship?
We may soon find out
A push here, a tug there.. one of us pushing a little more
But then someone hesitates
       
      Steps
Back

We both want to say the same thing without words
We just expect the other to know
To know what?
How can we convey a message that isn't yet clear to ourselves?

So instead we partake in our carefully calculated game
A game created to get answers, but which raises questions instead
So move on.
Get over it.
This isn't going to go anywhere

If you haven't said it yet,
and I haven't understood it yet.
If we haven't heard each other, then can this even be love?
Are we meant to be if we can't even understand each other's hearts?
Is it possible to know someone's entire soul with the exception of the answer to one question?

Hello!!

So obviously not much has been posted on here! I got the idea yesterday and began it today! I'll be adding new stuff soon.. Right now, I basically put up old stuff I had already typed up on my computer. Since I always write everything out by hand, I'll have to relocate everything and type it up on here!

Thanks for visiting:)!

Soon I'll be Gone

It is my last night, my last hour in a country that had been foreign to me a few years earlier. I had arrived here with preconceived notions of poor people lounging at every corner, convinced I would be forced to beg in throngs for my food as well. I had not hated India, but I had not embraced the idea of having to drink triply boiled water, walking through mud to get anywhere, waiting for the cows to move to the side of the road, the sweat, the stench, or the cloudless sky forever blockaded by thick, black smoke. I was not ready for the lack of laws, the corruption, the despair, or the hopeless attitude. I saw naked children showering in front of their dilapidated huts, men urinating openly on street corners in broad daylight, women with sagging breasts enveloped in threadbare saris trying to sell their overworked bodies, and experienced perverted men that got a rush from bumping into you, touching your shoulder, thigh, whatever was needed to jumpstart their imagination.

The stares, there was always an abundance of stares, as strangers definitely worse off than us Americans appraised our worth. Our Indian clothes, American-Urdu accent, our walk, appearance, our height, everything was closely scrutinized. Their judgmental gaze made me feel like a beauty pageant contestant. We Indian Americans with red rivers of pride flowing though our veins, hung our heads in embarrassment, afraid to look any male stranger in the eye; sick of being winked at and tired of the disrespect aimed our way. To them we were just slabs of meat. Bathing out of buckets as a result of the limited water supply, and having to depend on an unreliable power source were a few of the every day actions that humbled us. It is not like we were snobs, we had not arrived fully equipped with hair dryers, make up, and suitcases full of clothes. But humbled or not, the little things soon began to annoys us. The lack of privacy, the placement of mirrors in obscure, dimly lit corners, and strict societal expectations were enough to drive anyone insane.

Yet here I am, in a country whose definition of an air conditioned taxi is any car with windows that open. It is here that I am oddly content. It was here that I finally met my grandmother, after 13 years. I got to eat her chicken, with its distinct taste, that resembled the sensational food of my dreams. It was here that I was finally able to see my heritage, my roots, the places of my parents' childhood adventures, the country that had shaped us. I saw the land that had been passed down through my mother's family for generations and my uncle's bottling factory. I met cousins I had never known existed, experienced the boundless devotion that holds joint families together. I ate food made with the freshest ingredients, garnished abundantly with lots of love. I was waited on by family, who unable to satisfactorily express their love in words, conveyed it by trying to make every minuscule aspect of our life comfortable. Their love for us, complete strangers from another country, astounded me. How could they unconditionally love us so much? What had we done to deserve such hospitality? All we had done was boarded an airplane and arrived.

Yet here I am, leaving all that behind, the good and the bad. I'm going to miss all the new people I have met, half of whose names I have already forgotten. I am going to miss walking down streets that smell like the sewers, being scared by transvestites aggressively knocking on taxi windows for money, piling on top of one another with a record 19 people in a Sumo. I am going to miss PDP park, smelling the foul air, standing at the water's edge fully clothed, getting splashed with dirty brown water as the moon rises in the jet black sky with all my cousins. I am going to miss the little children that climbed onto the trains to sweep beneath our feet using the only shirt they own; hope etched into their lifeless eyes, their hardened faces too proud to display their pain, secretly hoping to receive a few rupees to help quiet the pangs of hunger throbbing in their bloated stomachs. I am going to miss the bazaars, the rancid fish markets, continuously being grilled about our true origins, being ripped off, driving around with lowered windows at three in the morning finally freed from the city?s traffic. I am going to miss eating freshly made corn on the cob, the ice cold, refreshing glasses of sugarcane juice, and the early morning trips to Whorly Sea Face. I am going to miss playing uno, dum sharas, and cards with my cousins; sharing stories, laughing, and telling jokes until everyone is on the brink of exhaustion; which is why I look out the window, unable to believe it will all be over in a few minutes. Bright voices, last minute thoughts, memories, and jokes swirl around me in our air conditioned sumo, bringing me back to a reality I do my best to avoid. In a few minutes I will be leaving for who knows how long. In a few minutes I will be forced to part with half my soul. Soon I will be gone.

Writing after a long time, and that too with a computer

                                                                                                                                                     4/9/2011

***For those of you that enjoy writing, do you find that the instrument you use to record your thoughts effects your writing style or your thought process?***

It’s been too long

Since I’ve expressed myself

My words are hindered

They stumble out slowly

Without the grace they had once before

My actions are mechanical,

Imbibed with a click

Followed with a clack

I miss the freeform of paper and pencil

I miss the continuity and flow

Everything comes out in spurts

Disjointed

Unconnected

Cold, distant, apathetic

Incomplete

The Patient Patient and the Ambiguous __________.

1/23/06

***The blank lines are there on purpose. They substitute for a particular word***

I sit here, trapped, surrounded by the dense cloud only true despair can bring. I gaze around, trying to penetrate the thick fog, searching for a metal clad knight that will come rescue me. But all I see are orange clad men and women, trying to rescue themselves. Sometimes, if I sleep long enough, the fog will lift for a couple of hours. Then I normally like to stare at the clouds. I would like to do other things, but they say I’m not ready yet to go out into the “real world”. So I just sit here, in my rocking chair, with silence for company. Occasionally, one of those white clad women will come and try to cram some food in my mouth, but I’ve noticed that if I sit silently, and sort of glaze my eyes over, then I can convince them that I am still in the fog, and they leave me alone. Those are the good days however. On the bad days, as soon as I enter the fog, I feel as if though I’m being suffocated. Fearful that I may be enshrouded in the fog, because of my inability to escape, I scurry around in it, trying desperately to find my way out, only to find failure at every turn. There’s one, she’s my favorite. Completely draped in fresh white cotton every day, she sometimes sneaks over and puts cookies or something sweet in my hand, and disappears quickly. I guess she knows I don’t like to eat when people are watching. I just sit here day after day, looking out the window, no matter the time; that’s because I try not to sleep. When I sleep I see all kinds of fantastic things. But sometimes, I see nothing, and instead I find myself stuck in the darkness only oblivion can bring. That’s the hardest for me. Sometimes, after they inject me, I feel a burning sensation sear through my veins. But I just sit there, sure to show no emotions. I just stare in the distance, hoping to catch sight of my knight. They’ve been giving me injections less frequently now. I hear them whispering in groups as they look over in my direction, but I can’t hear what they say. Sometimes I climb partly out of the fog, in hopes of being able to hear what they are saying to one another about me; though the voices always sound distant, like they are coming from miles away. All of a sudden, my family has begun to visit me with more regularity. They visited often before but now my grandkids will occasionally edge past the sides of my bed and my daughter will hug me with tears in her eyes. What bothers me most, is watching those tears, tauntingly race down my daughter’s cheek.  I want to wipe them. I try to wipe them, but my hands remain stubbornly by my side. This past week my favorite woman attired in white has been bringing me my favorite foods. They only send her now. I don’t know why though. She always seems to want to linger a little longer, almost as if though she wants to say something but then she hesitates and leaves. One time I think I saw something glint in her eye.…

            The needle punctures my skin, there’s no more good food for me anymore. I still get my favorite nurse; she’s the one who gives me the shots. Her hands always feel fiery hot on my skin, but I think that’s because I’m always so cold. I have to use three blankets now and I still shiver. My daughter only comes with her husband; they never bring their kids anymore… my grandkids. I miss them. I haven’t sat in my rocking chair in such a long time. Not since I had my last actual meal. I tried to ask my daughter if there were still clouds outside but the words wouldn’t get out. I couldn’t get them to escape my lips. Lately I have whole conversations in my head. I tell my daughter how much I love her, I tell my son-in-law to take care of her, I tell my grandkids to be good, but as hard as I try, I can never have these conversations out loud. They are constantly replayed in my head. To be heard and reheard eternally only by me, not destined to be said aloud, that makes me the most despondent of all….

            I see the knight coming closer now, I see him beckoning. Every time I reach out to him, I hear the rattle of a cart, which brings me back to a visionless reality. The one thing I could always count on before were those clouds, it’s been a while since I last laid eyes on them. Now even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t be able to. I can’t see anything anymore. All I can rely on is my rapidly deteriorating sense of hearing. It’s hard to hear someone when you are miles away. Men in white coats come in to prod and tap me with something new every day. They strip me down and lay me on the table, and I lay there like a helpless doll. That’s what I’ve become, a helpless doll…

            Looking back, I realize how I took those sun filled days for granted. Thinking my life would continue eternally, very much like a never-ending line. A life in which one was always moving forward, never reaching the end. I remember those days spent at the carnival, filled with laughter, sweet nothings, and the thrill of adventure. I remember the knight… No, not the knight. I remember those hot days spent lying lazily on the porch drinking a tall, icy glass of lemonade. I remember reading books mentally following the journey of King Arthur and the _______ of the Round Table. I remember reading Sir Gawain and the Green ___­­__. I guess as one gets old, one’s memory begins to elude you. Oh what I wouldn’t give for some company. I sometimes get these sensations in my bones. They say that happens with old age. When all your other senses begin to fail you, you get new ones, and I’ve noticed that my new senses happen to be in my feeble bones. These new senses of mine always tell me when my daughter is coming. I just know she’ll come tomorrow. That makes me sad for some reason. A persisting, tingling continues in my bones, a feeling I’ve never experienced before. Maybe it’ll go away by tomorrow….

            She comes. She sits beside me. Speechless. It’s been like this for the last couple of visits. Suddenly, a new magnitude of clarity is manifested on the scene before me.  I see every detail on that lovely face of hers clearly. I notice the scar she got when she was stung by a bee on her left eyelid. I see the stitches on her chin, from when she fell off her bike in fifth grade. But how can I enlighten her about this new level of awareness churning inside of me? I can’t move, say or do anything. She sits there weeping, unaware of the changes taking place within me. Thinking me, to be already dead. All I can do is close my eyes and feign sleep. It’s about time I let her go on with her life. Where is that blasted knight? I remember making breakfast one time. The toast got stuck in the toaster. My favorite woman in white came in followed by my daughter.

“What are you doing?” asked the knight.

“Looking at the clouds,” I replied.

“There are none.”

It was at that precise moment that the unpleasant odor of burnt toast reached our nostrils, halting our conversation, as I realized something was burning. I leapt towards the toaster panicking. My daughter sat there weeping. The fiery, hot hand that had fed and clothed me for months inched towards the toaster plug.  All I could do was stand there in shock, frozen, unable to do anything except stare at the plug. The knight moved closer. The scorching hot hand grabbed hold of the plug and the knight, dark metal plates clinking and clanging, was less than an inch away. My daughter wept louder. The fire alarm went off, activated by the smoke emanating from the burnt toast still stuck in the toaster. And the fiery hand yanked the plug out of the socket. The knight enveloped me in a protective embrace. The fire alarm shut off. And my daughter ….. was finally able to move on.

Love

3/11/07

I am intoxicated, hopelessly fixated, addicted, and madly in love. You are my drug, my sole reason for living. Love is my disease and you are the cure. My skin tingles as it recollects your soft touch. Those long fingers intertwining with my hair, going down, down, down; touching me with desire, curiously probing, inspecting tirelessly. Your cologne has become an everlasting part of me, always lingering in my nostrils, on my skin, taunting me in my dreams. My lips tremble as they think about our first kiss, never quite feeling at home unless pressed against yours. The echo of your voice still resonates through my ears, your braying laugh the only music of any interest to me. My eyes, with your image permanently etched in them, yearn to behold your face once more. Your intense gaze exhilarates me, making me quiver with excitement. Your murky blue eyes sprinkled with brown flecks draw me in, leading me to the depths of your soul, failing miserably in their attempt to hide what they are truly feeling. How will I ever live without you? I love you. I love you. I love you. I love the way you always say the right thing, way you anticipate all my needs and wants, unselfishly continue giving, never asking for anything in return but my love. I adore the way you climb the stairs, are not overly chivalrous, whistle when bored, never forget to put the cap on the toothpaste, run your hands through your hair when feeling nervous, always remember my birthday, our anniversary, and the day we met. I look forward to the I-Love-You notes cleverly hidden in my shoes, the flowers you randomly buy, your witty puns, hilarious jokes, and quirky observations. I love your thoughts, your body, your spirit, generosity, personality, soul, YOU! But in our love, relationship, in me and you, there exist many contradictions. Your simplicity makes you complex, you morphed into a thief the day you stole my heart, your honesty transforms you into a liar, your unselfishness makes you greedy, and your love imprisons me. Your passion becomes indifference, your hatred your love, and your anger your tranquility. Your love, my love, our love confuses me, forces me, compels me to believe there may be a heaven on earth after all, star-crossed lovers may have existed, and the soul mate theory may not be farfetched. Your character, laugh, warmth, unconditional love, and sincerity make me believe that perfection may be possible. But the ever-present paradox makes me wonder, makes me doubt. How could you ever fall in love with someone as imperfect as me? There. I said it. Your faith makes me doubt. Are we together because opposites attract? You know, the perfect with the imperfect, the flawed with the unflawed, the optimist with the pessimist. When I am with you, I am the lone keeper to all of life’s unasked, unanswered questions, all the happiness in this world, all the love I’ll ever need. But what do you get? I’m intoxicated, hopelessly fixated, addicted, and madly in love with you. You are my drug, my sole reason for living. Love is your disease, but am I your cure? 

Abandoned beginnings- Random Unfinished Snippets

1/31/08

The flame of happiness burns inside me, melting the candle of my sorrow as soon as it forms, reducing it to atomic slivers of hardened wax. My inexplicable euphoria courses through my veins, leaving me helpless, unable to wipe the grin that repeatedly materializes onto my face. In this state I am unable to fathom despair, unhappiness, or hatred. The only feelings that exist in my world are joy, love, and peace. Sometimes I wonder if my bliss will come crashing down around me, like a sudden summer thunderstorm, striking all that I hold dear, reducing it to senseless rubble. Fortunately thoughts like these are immediately slain into insignificant subatomic particles, swirling around inside of me like the vivid orange, yellow, and red leaves of deciduous trees in the fall, only to be blown away by a strong burst of cheer. Crammed inside of me is a relentless chortle, that when released roars like a tiger in feisty pursuit of its prey. Seduced by everyday events around me, I glean joy from other people’s happiness, abandoning my sorrow in dark corners to ensure it vanishes forever—without first contaminating others. My entire perspective on life has morphed. I see color where before there was none; I feel warmth when all I felt before was coldness (I see hope where before there was none?). I savor the lone ray of sunlight that dances over my sleeping soul in the morning, gently prying me awake. I hunt for the breeze that has the perfect amount of force to tousle my hair, running through my shiny black strands with as much ease and familiarity as a lover. I engulf the tangy flavor of delight an orange brings to my tongue, the juicy bulbs exploding like water balloons against the roof of my mouth. I cherish the extravagant sunsets, the exuberant colors stampeding the stagnant blue sky, infusing the drab blueness with rich hues of violet, saffron-yellow, and red.

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His hands trailed over the picture, tracing every crinkle and fold, furiously stroking them as if his fervent hand motions could bring her back from the dead. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that such thoughts were ridiculous, but he chose to ignore that rational part of him, and instead believe that remembering her, immortalizing her by infusing her into every aspect of his life might make her return...

2/18/2011

Sometimes I’m stunned by the perseverance and vulnerability I see around me. People are so needy. They need someone to listen to them and at the same time they can be broken so easily that it is scary. But then there are others that are so good at dusting themselves off and getting right back up. There are broken marriages, relationships, disabilities, war, abuse, and yet we as a human race keep striving, and moving forward. It never ceases to amaze me. 

4/24/08

I’ve pondered for hours why addicts are unable to realize the magnitude of their situation. As they steal from their parents, lie to their friends, and run from lenders. How can a person reach such a low point in their life? When the whole world is telling them they are wrong, why can’t they believe it? Why are they blinded to the severity of their situation? Why can’t they comprehend that normal people don’t drink half a keg of alcohol or smoke marijuana by the bucket full? And every time, during these intense musings of mine, I begin to wonder. What if I too, like these drug addicts am blinded to some negative aspect of my life. How is a person supposed to know when they are on the right track or not?  

Guided Imagery-6/2/08

Use this to  help yourself relax. If you have a very kind friend, have them read it to you while you close your eyes and try to visualize yourself in the surroundings. Or read it before, play some soft music, and imagine the scene as best as you are able to remember it! Let your imagination take you someplace new!

Imagine you are lying out on a canoe, floating, floating away onto the cool lake from the dock.  You see it getting further and further away as you lay down against the back of the canoe, letting the current take you on its own course.  Peace and serenity enfold their long and soft arms around you.  Every part of your body is limp from relaxation.  The slothfulness of the afternoon enters your body as you lay there under the deep blue sky that stretches for miles and miles all around you, eventually meeting with the crystal clear blue water and becoming one.  Stray clouds scatter the sky like little speckles on a canvas of perfection moving lazily away from you as the gentle breeze blows through the air fluttering through your hair and tickling your skin.  It soothes your weary soul and eases your mind.  And as you go further onto the lake, you can hear the tender waves lapping against the sides of the canoe, washing away the sediment built up from previous outings.  There are trees all around you.  Not just any trees.  Lush green trees bursting with life, as they sway slowly and rhythmically against the sky, almost as if though they are caressing the air, touching it with their soft, smooth leaves.  Their long vines dip into the water, adding shade to the water’s edge.  The soft chirping of the birds filter through the sky, as they begin to settle down for the night to come, filling their birdling’s stomach with small worms dug from the cool, damp earth.  Their melodious songs enter your consciousness as you lay there and fill your head with sounds as sweet as sap sucked from tall maple trees, still standing strong.  Goslings hunch together along the shore where the sand is firm against their delicate feet.  Your spirits lift hearing these beautiful songs floating through the air as if trying to reach you.  The sun shines dazzlingly from up above, warming your body against the fresh breeze.  And as you slowly get up to look around, you realize the dock is getting closer and you must row yourself over, ending your serene rendezvous.