It is a creative writing piece written for a college competition. It tends to be dirtily ranty woman-ish somewhere. Excuse that.
I am still twisting that wet strand of hair like some rope dipped in tea. There's crumbs of walnut brownie on my lips. No, actually the corner of my mouth. It looks like the curve of the boat that we saw at the beach, I know. There is a salty sea inside the walls of my mouth, I can feel the watery slimy emotions brimming like a choker necklace up till my throat, the water exploding through my nose, my ears, all crevices, my mouth, the open ends of my globe like opulent eyes, my open freckled pores and those streams of saline flood cracking at the back of my neck. Stop, think about the death. Forget the funeral. Defense mechanism. Period.
Let's pick another one. I will rationalize my panic attacks and the irrational post traumatic stress of losing you. There is just enough time for the talk. After all, we are different people. I like beans and you, spinach. My eyes can't see, like rains on a plastic sheet. There is a storm brewing at the pit of my womb.
How were you? Now receding, ebb like, tissue by tissue, dripping in clots, aren't you petrified of the next storm in the sewage pipelines? That will be another storm, flushed. He is scrubbing my interiors clean, like cardboard. I can hear something like waxy paper. There is a mesh with big holes and it is filtering knuckled words and fist fights.
Just for four months' sake, I will write my own elegies to you.
"While I pack crates and move boulders from my choking throat, as I carefully uncork the ululating storm. I untie the cord. Snap! From Amneotic pool to murky suspicious oceans. You will sink, it will sink in you. Honks and gongs may sing to your sleepy mornings. After you gobble breakfast with Gillyweed and pebbles, wave through those layers of blue; huge red bottoms of sailing ships will pass you by.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The French connection
This is about the trip that is just over. A trip to Pondicherry (Puducherry). All those streets and those houses that were yellow and gray and blue. All streets named in French. So many people who spoke french. I was bummed. I cannot and am too exhausted to romanticize about the place but there is a beach between auroville and Pondy where I went at night. It was a fantasy, like some ancient African dance to beckon the moon hiding behind the clouds and the waves roaring, invading the land slight by slight. There are not many pictures of the place because it was birthday party scene and most pictures are of people. Still, I have just put some visual memory for color. It was a beautiful trip because I could still confidently speak french and connect to the french way of thinking and gasping about typical frivolities.
Je me disais que c'etait fini, que c'etait l'histoire. Mais les sentiments sont bien preserves, meme aujourd'hui. C'est comme un grand sac dans lequel il ya des mots pour la meme image mais dont la description la rend completement differente.
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