Thursday, July 28, 2005

an empty chair
a story of when my grandparents knew me less
but still sheltered me,
the dal softening in the solar-cooker
that winter - we had one-celebration-too-many
who came, who didn't?
the green of this garden is paling now
i never go there,
i never play there,
poke around in the mud.
my mother is not tall enough now -
to dry clothes this high.
my world is fast becoming
a history of sorts, written
in commented photographs.

Saturday, July 23, 2005

It is Saturday night. My mind is on my internal organs, my future. I am overwhelmed, nervous, scared. It's a good thing, not a bad thing, but it really gets the what if's flowing like mad. What if I've done things incorrectly? What if I should have traveled around the world by now? What if I should have more degrees, especially more advanced degrees by now? What if I regret? What if I wake up some day and discover that I've done it all wrong? Am I the only one who has these worries? I always think I am the only one. Always the only one, like there is something so special, so unique about me. I've never been the only one, so why would I be the only one this time? Perhaps it is egocentric to think I am the first and only one to think/worry about something.

I'll be a duck and just let the water roll off my feathers. Easy gliding. Simple.

And remembering to breathe has been especially challenging.

My worries are worse at night, and first thing in the morning.

Breathing now. Taking deep breaths into my belly, letting it roll up, filling my solar plexus, then my lungs, all the way up. Then all the way out. Then all the way down. It helps, but right now it helps only briefly.

This entry is heavy and sad and full of fear and worry. It's good to get it out, but uch. Tomorrow I will write something that feels different. A companion to this one.

Sunday, July 03, 2005

The weekend is over. It was hectic. I didn't even get time enough to close the door of my room and sit back. Relax. Saw a lot of movies, though.

Have been wasting a lot of time at trying to start accounting. I tried out lots of software. Nothing worked out. I need something simple.

Walking on the wet grass is fun. Am avoiding adjectives today - was working on a script for a documentary, was full of adjectives and verbal bouquets.

With the unavailability of time, poetry bangs against the wall and waits. I don't feel bad. I think of how the monsoon is another act of exremism. From draught to flood in two weeks!

Was talking to someone yesterday about some of my public art ideas for Ahmedabad. I was sipping tea. I forgot to pay the bill. It was raining outside. I wanted to buy a notebook for keeping my accounts. No stationary shop was open.

When there is no time to think, what does thought get translated into.

I took off 20 post-its from my wall. They were making me think too much of to-dos and I was doing nothing. Now I realize, my wall is ligght brown in colour. With a hint of yellow thrown in.

M. called my painting an expensive hobby. I didn't argue. I didn't defend. I didn't define.

What does it matter? I don't eat pizza at pizza hut. I paint.

Thursday, June 30, 2005

My jaw is killing me. It feels like I've pushed my molars up into my jawbone. I don't realize I do this until it's too late, until I am in pain. Such a stupid day. I got a haircut. I hate it. It is so stupid to hate a haircut. I cried and cried and cried. I always cry when I get my haircut. It is ridiculous to eat my kishkes out because of a haircut. Hair grows. I try and try to put it into perspective, to no avail. I feel like having a broken heart. I feel like eating my kishkes. It feels good to cry and cry and cry.

This man in the Kenton neighborhood, as I was bending over my bicycle, my ass in the air, said I must not weight 100 pounds. He had no front teeth, he was probably missing at least 4 of his front teeth, on the top. I was staring at this blankness in his mouth. I hope he didn't notice. I rode away wondering how he lost his teeth. He was young. Maybe someone punched him. It's impolite to talk about a lady's weight, isn't it? I should have told him so.

I hope something is going on in the cosmos that is making me feel this way. Things feel slanted. My dad is so lonely. My mom called me crying. My sister broke her arm. I feel shattered. Like all I want in the world is for my mom to take care of me. To nurture. To be kind and loving. That's not how it works, it hasn't worked that way for such a long time. And I'm a grown up now. I shouldn't want that, need that. But I do.

Sunday, June 26, 2005

Friends seem distant, I saw the first glance of disillusionment, disrespect, falling-out in G.'s eyes today. He seemed to disapprove of my misery, of my stinginess. The way I sat crosslegged, numb and immune to all emotion.

I let that pass. Already I am crushed by debt and consciousness to a shrill echo of my past ambition. My self is the same, dumb, relaxed, looking out of the window.

My friends get business off me, they meet my friends and strike deals. I do not keep accounts. I suffer in poverty. What shall I ask of my friends? How shall I say that I can show the way but not walk with them today.

Everybody is clamouring for me today. They need me, flowering fresh and alive, throbbing with life and energy to sit with them, sing with them, dream on of the other worlds.

She says, "After this I refuse to work with you." I think, yes - you can afford to think this way. I can not. I think, yes - I carry the curse of being self-centered to my teeth. You do not.

You are a women of today, a woman of substance. You mix easily and with no discomfort. I have my mediums, I have my languages - barring these, all interactions are stress. All conversations are punishments. You can refuse to talk to me, I can not. I will have to struggle, sneak in my meanings in mirages, in odd songs, in good behavior. Strength is another thing, we learnt about at home. The strength, which comes of tolerating self-inflicted pain. The strength, which comes of suffering one's decisions.

My path of choice may lead me nowhere, it has its own shades of the schizoid, the irregular, the macabre. But then I have to be me. I have no other choice. I have to find a way of spelling ABC - and not feel embarassed of my indentations, which confuse alphabets to be numerals.

Confusing alphabets to be numerals is not much fun.

Friday, June 24, 2005

I am sitting in the booth in my kitchen. The booth is blue vinyl, the table is silver, it is a round booth and it is the heart of our house. Everyone is drawn to it. Even though we have a dining room with a dining room table, much roomier, ten will squeeze into the booth. It's nice for everyone to squeeze, to be close. Friends don't touch each other that often or that much, so it's nice to squeeze into the both. To feel love.

And it is here, at the booth, that I am thinking, this is me. I am good enough. Maybe sometimes I can believe this is true. I wonder if I will be able to teach my children that they are always good enough, there never needs to be a doubt in their minds. I hate this doubt. It serves no healthy purpose. It only tears me apart. It is so loud at times, but right now it's quiet, a nice reprise.

I've been on my own all week. In the past, I had panic attacks. This time I didn't feel scared. Most of the time I noticed how much time there is in a day, and how many more days I have to wait for Aaron to come home. Maybe I am feeling this separation with such impatience because we were recently apart for a month. I was away, it is so much easier to be the one who is away. I don't like being apart. I believe in independence, that being codependent is unhealthy, but I do not like being apart. I can be mean to myself. Telling myself that this is weak.

Tomorrow feels like it will last a long, boring time. It is not going to be just a regular day, it is a day of waiting, waiting, waiting. Aaron will come home late at night, so I have the entire day to fill. I have no plans and I am sure I will feel every second of every minute of every hour. I think I will practice being good enough. Perhaps tomorrow I will lay around and read a book, for pleasure, and not feel one little doubt, one speck of guilt. A guilt-free day. Too bad I know what guilt is, and too bad I know how to punish myself. I should be working working working. Research, educating myself, creating, I will only feel good about myself if I do productive work. Only productive people are happy and successful. Only productive people make money. Only productive people are smart and guiltless. What if I lived my life without all of these pressures? What if I merely enjoyed myself? What would life be like without all of this nagging, pestering, badgering, self-loathing? My word this week has been surrender. Surrender to the idea that life is about pleasure, not about suffering and pain. I will try this out and let you know.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

I want to make a curtain which looks like the essential parts of the mess I have created.

The mess I have created, painted nonsense all over the sky. Is a result of the allowances I have given myself, they way I have allowed myself to feel everything which pains me.

This Satuday is a holiday. What will I do? Maybe I will sit at liesure and stare at the wall of my room. A million post-its stuck all over it? Maybe the post-its will be fluttering, waving with the wind. But then maybe they will be still. Silent as the ideas written on them.

My new canvas has been waiting for me for a few days now. Can't seem to muster the courage to attack it, disfiguire it. Create a mess again.

From one mess to another. What does it matter?

I won't talk as if I am telling you things, which happen in my life. Again and again and again.

I'd rather bounce words off your ears and see how they sound. Your ears are rabbit-ears. You have no sense of time and place. In the middle of June you wait for the rain with an open ubrella. No open umbrella will get wet, without the rain.

I want to fill my BA form today at the open-university. What do you think will make more sense, Sociology or Political Science? Political Science can take me ten steps in the direction of becoming an ace speach writer for the next PM-A-Large... :) Maybe?