Pammi Will Wed Reghu

For her twenty-first birthday, Pammi put on an Australian accent. She ordered a Long Island at Harry’s, unsure of its ingredients, and then sat at the barstool guessing at the taste of alcohol and the people at the bar.

Her Long Island arrived. She started slow: small sips and conversation with women in stilettos. She started to talk of Michaelangelo but the ladies soon returned to their phones. She moved on timidly to surveying the men. On cue, one of the species approached. It was the barman, this time on her side of the bar.

“The second round’s on me,” he said, raising his glass to hers, “Cheers!”

“You can drink on the job?”

“I’m off duty now. So what are we celebrating?”

Mr. Suave Barman quickly added up her story: new to New Delhi, just got a job at the Supreme Court, just broke up with her boyfriend, still wanted to celebrate her 25^th birthday and Harry’s was the nearest bar.

One two ka four, the Suave Barman thought, Four two ka one.

“My name is Lakhan,” he sang, adding, “And you are?”

“Pammi. Friends in Australia call me Pam.”

“I like Pammi. I like Punjabi girls. And I love this song.” he said, starting to dance on the tune that just broke out, “Perfect break-up song.”

She remembers him expertly holding their drinks as they sashayed to ‘Let’s Break Up, o meri jaan’. She did not mind it, this new taste, and this camaraderie over what would become a newfound ritual.

That was seven years ago, exactly.

***

Ashraf finally managed to get through to her. He wanted to meet for her birthday, “Remember, where we first met?”

Pammi arrived at Harry’s Pub in Lajpat Nagar at 9 pm sharp. Ashraf walked in unhurried, 40 minutes later, looking as dapper as ever.

Fuck him, she thought.

“Two Long Islands,” he said, leaning across to the barman. He then turned his smile full-beam on her.

Fuck him, she thought again.

“Happy birthday, Pammi!” he said holding out one arm, the other concealing her gift.  

“Thank you. And it’s still Pam.”

“Were you waiting long? Sorry man, traffic was crazy today.”

“That’s funny because, you know, I ran into Reghu just now. And you know what he said? He said he was coming from the same direction. And it only took him 20 minutes because the roads were totally empty.”

“For God’s sake, Pammi. I’m telling you the truth,” said Ashraf, irritated.

“Oh, I’m sure, Mr. Lakhan. You always tell the truth.”

“Oh come on Pammi, you can’t still be mad about that,” he was irritated, then back to his usual self, “That was so long ago. I can’t even remember...”

“Seven years ago. It was seven years ago, today.”

Ashraf pursed his lips.

 “I still can’t believe you lied to me.”

 “It was just a joke.”

“It was not a joke, and it was not funny.”

“It may have gone a little too far.”

“Two whole months.”

“You are such a nitpicker. You know what I remember? Australia. Broke up with my boyfriend. Supreme Court. You even convinced me you were 25.”

“You were the barman! I’m supposed to say I’m 25. You lied to me about your name for two whole months. I said one little lie so I wouldn’t get kicked out of the bar.”

“Four.”

“What?”

“Australia. Boyfriend. Job. 25. Four little lies.”  

“Pfft! And I’m the nitpicker?”

“That you are.” Ashraf leaned in and gave her that Mr. India smile of his. “But I don’t remember any of that. What I remember is seeing a lady with a Long Island sitting alone at the bar in a lovely black dress, a lot like tonight.”

Fuck him, Pammi chanted, Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.

***

Pammi took the robe from Ashraf and closed the bathroom door.

“I’m getting married,” she said, then came out wearing the robe.

“Excuse me?” said Ashraf.

Pammi shot down the urge to say ‘Excused.’
“You know the guy, vaguely,” she said.
She took the towel from around her head and began to dry her hair. 

“What are you on about?”

“Reghu. I’m marrying Reghu.”

“That’s fucked up. He just saw us yesterday at Harry’s, dancing to our song.”

Pammi picked up a hairbrush.
“Our song? What song is that?”

“The break-up song.”

“Yeah, but which one?”

“What are you doing to your curls? I love them the way they are.”

“Don’t change topic. Which song was it?”

“What the hell does it matter?”

“You don’t remember.”

“Sayya ji se aaj maine break-up kar liya. You were there when I asked the DJ to play it last night.”

Pammi turned around to face him.
“Yes, and that is not our song.”

“Pammi, you’re frigging annoying.”

“Our song was ‘Let’s Break Up.’”

“And what the hell is the fucking difference?”

Pammi faced the mirror and started brushing her hair again.

“The fucking difference is this: the first song was from the movie ‘Dear Zindagi’ and the second was from ‘Ae Dil Hai Mushkil.’

“And again, what the fuck does it matter?”

“What’s in a name? That which we call an Ashraf, by any other name – say Lakhan – would be as rotten...”

“Ah.”

Pammi stopped brushing her hair.

Ashraf nodded slowly, breathing out each sentence.

“You’re getting married,” he said.

“Yes.”

“To a guy called Reghu.”

“Hm.”

“Because my name is Ashraf.”

Pammi put her brush down.

Thanks to Nisha Susan's guidance, whose workshop 'Write Like a Girl' was where this piece was first written. I have made a few edits thanks to tips from friends Yuveka Singh and Rihan Najib!  For people who don't watch much Bollywood, there are a few references to Indian songs and cinema. Sorry about that, I hope the story still holds up. Send me your comments please, would love to hear what you think! 

Let them live

They say about your writing that "you have to kill your darlings."

That's what the critics would tell you. And this strange proverb seems to invite them into your head. I think the expression "cat got your tongue" finally makes sense to me. It's that hesitant way that Gutthi, my cat, has about everything. When I've picked her up and she has to think many moments before deciding that she really wants to be down on the ground. The always thoughtful and pensive way she has. That feeling of never quite knowing if you are saying the right thing.

What is the right thing to say?

Ever?

I have been so hesitant. Every word, every sentence goes through revisions. Words almost out of the mouth make their way back in into an in-breath. Statements turn into questions. Thoughts into doubts. Everything, all my words, all my thoughts, go back on themselves.

It's been this way for so long, and it's been so tiring. It's been so tiring answering all those imaginary bullies, and the real ones.

The truth is if I never let these words out, I will never find the beautiful ones, never have any darlings, and before I have the luxury of killing them darlings, I have to let these unformed, unthought words out into the world, to let them be ugly, unfinished, careless.

And simply let them be. 

Mary Oliver passes

I first met Mary Oliver on a bookshelf in Maadi, Egypt. I am not so clear why I was there, kneeling, and pulling out a copy of "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver from a white row of low shelves. Perhaps I was there after a workshop or an event. I am also not clear about the name of this place.

I remember the book being a beautiful purple coloured cover, and I think I may not remember it correctly. I remember it being almost square and weighing well in the hand. I remember reading the title poem, and I remember wanting to keep the book, probably to steal it.

I remember sharing the poem with a friend, who had read her poem "The Dogfish."

I remember sharing it with another friend I loved, and who faced confusion, and I remember sharing it with another friend, and another love.

I remember pulling it out to comfort myself, realising the value of the freedom from the burden of being good, though I have always tried so hard to be good.

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things. Mary Oliver Wild Geese

I know this poem is a blessing.

As I hear of her death, I know that I have never craved to meet this person, yet her touch has been light and present, especially in moments where I searched for or sought to share hope. 

If I could pass through this world as lightly, and with as much grace...

I remember today, waking up to quotes and dedications to this poet, and feeling already left behind, feeling already old in my praise.

It is almost as if nothing had happened. You will always be like this quiet morning, this soft light that shines on the bright green leaves of the tree. 

And I am thankful. 

Spark Joy!

I have been watching "Tidying Up" on Netflix featuring petite cleaning sensation Marie Kondo. Her konmari method is based on the philosophy of joy. Keep only the things that "spark joy", she says in her Japanese accent. Marie is also a master folder, and has a technique of folding clothes - usually in thirds - so that they fold into a smooth rectangle that can be stacked vertically. This both makes for neatness and maximises space.

Today, another thing that sparked joy besides my little daily cleaning has been a meeting with Dr. Vikram Patel. I put forward my proposal with Echo to Dr. Patel, who is an eminent psychiatrist dealing with mental health issues globally. Clearly this was daunting because he could quickly spot flaws in my argument. This time I came quite prepared. I had a good presentation and answers to most of his questions.

Today sparked joy.

I find it difficult to toe the line between arrogance and under-confidence. I'm usually on one side or the other. Today I went in fairly prepared, both with the presentation and with expectations, which were quite low. I went in thinking that my idea may be dismissed completely. But with Kartik by my side helping me prepare and present my case to Dr. Patel, I felt confident enough to defend my idea, clear any doubts, and answer questions sufficiently. I also made sufficient headway in terms of progress at the first meeting, and have enough to go on to ask for a second meeting. That already is enough.

We have what it takes to take this project forward. All we need now is funding. Granted that is a big ask, but at the same time, having Sangath and Dr. Vikram Patel by our side is a huge achievement. To be honest, even Kartik and Echo had not yet managed a meeting with Dr. Patel, but now they finally have. Dr. Patel already knew about Sangath and he already has a meeting planned with Dr. Arora. Kartik did not know about this, or did not know that it would be brought up at the meeting, but Dr. Patel apparently has spoken already to Sanjeev Arora and they will be having a meeting next week. So that's very good.

A lot of steps need to be taken to ensure that we are taken seriously. Small steps, like business cards. Medium steps, like a website, and large steps, like registering the organisation formally. I will need Blessin on board for this. I guess that's a nicer way to say, aaaaaaaaaah paaanic, Blessin!

So, all in all a good day. I worked for hours at 91springboard right after the meeting with Dr. Patel. I might take up a work-space over there at Nehru Place. I think the chair arrangement suits me far better because I like having my little corner in the cafe area. So I'll work for another day tomorrow and try to see if it works out with Blessin to finance a chair in the other area. Tomorrow I'll also speak to Google for Entrepreneurs and see what kind of support and funding is available over there.

Had a good catch-up and meeting with Blessin today too. Talked about how to take Sahaayta forward, and honestly talked about my financial situation which was good to do, because someone needs to know about that. 

Laying down the law

Lay down the rules
of the ground
on the ground.

Draw lines
on both sides of the ruler:
the line they cannot cross,
and the line you will not.

Observe
the two lines
Separated
by a space
As
flat and fat like a ruler,

as
Fat and flat like a ruler.


a poem after a long while, and perhaps not a very good one, 
but still a start.

How To Prepare

* Write a list:
* Wash your hair in the morning.
* Do your jobs - remember all the mini-tasks.
* Set an auto-response for the time you are away. .
* Set reminders for when you are back.
* Say goodbyes.
* Pick up the shopping left over at the store.
* Go to the parlour. Get hair done.
* Do the packing at home; gifts, clothes, medicines, telephones, chargers, money, all that stuff.
* Oh yes! Passport! Ticket! Pen!
* Maybe also paper
* Say goodbyes (again).
* Make a list. A new one.

Insomnia

Some window seems to be banging against the sill,
and I cannot find it.
I'm afraid I know which window it is,
and of what I may find behind it..
The dogs have been barking, that cannot be good.
This is a very very quiet, dark neighbourhood.
I live alone; I'm afraid of being alone,
I wouldn't like living with someone.
and I'm afraid I'm not alone...

Where I am

Since this is the place where people say you should start, I'll start with where I am. I'm in a nice little place in Lajpat Nagar, New Delhi. It is what I like to call a railway-compartment style apartment, with one room after another. You have to pass through the salon to get to my roommate's room, then you go into the dining room to reach my room at the very end with a tiny balcony. The best part of this place - which I admit is slight underused - is the roof. It has a view of the nearby garden, many many trees, and of course the buildings in the area. On some days it is nice to go upstairs in good weather, with a tea or a cigarette and take it all in, and breathe it all out. It's been two years in Delhi, and they've been a bit of a roller-coaster. I must say though that I've been a little happier when it's been harder. It has worked out. I have had great help. A very good counsellor, supportive family and friends - some of them have been doling wisdom that I only took up later, and then realized what a difference it made. I've come through - a little better, a little stronger than I thought I would. There's still a lot of questions, a lot of areas where I feel lost. I'm learning, though, and I know more than I did before to deal with the newer questions. We're all in the same boat.

I'm coming back

Arriving in Cairo

So we meet again – Cairo and I – sooner than I thought we would. I had left in August, promising to come back in December, and somewhere after a month into life as a Dilli ki Billi, I realized I had not been making enough, and that coming back would inevitably mean an attack of nostalgia and longing that would be difficult to resist. 

And sure enough, already on day one, before I even stepped on to Egyptian soil, I found myself wondering if it would not be good to come back. Any thoughts of the nature were immediately changed after Mom’s reaction. She didn’t know I was headed home for the winter holiday season when she opened the door with: “Tu? Kyoon? Too kaise aa gayee?” (“You? Why? What made you come back?”). And immediately she asked if this meant I had left India. I said no it was a surprise. “Good, then you can stay now. We can go back together, in September.” 
 

And all the while she claimed not to be (happily) surprised, she was dialing up my Dad. 

-          “I can’t reach Chitra. I don’t know where she’s been.”  (yes, we Kalyani siblings get it from our parents.)

-          “I just spoke to her this morning.”

-          “Yes, but I tried again, and I cannot reach her. I don’t know where she could be.”

At this point I took the phone from Mom.

-          “Yes, this girl roams out too late at night. That’s just how she is….”

And Dad starts laughing, “Very good. Hahaha. Very good.” 

And after a very short-lived sense of satisfaction at my arrival, they both launch into complaints about how they could have asked me to bring stuff from India. Here, may it be noted, I had told my Mom that “a friend” (for I am on good terms with myself) would be visiting in case she would like anything.

Mom’s told a few people since.

The taste of home.

Before I came to Cairo, I had made a mental list of three things I’d ask Mom to cook for me. In the span of a day she’s already made me those three dishes. The first was tomato curry, I’d written it down somewhere in Delhi, and when I arrived, without me asking, the first thing Mom puts into the cooker are tomatoes to boil for a curry. She seems to always instinctively know. And Mom always shows her love through food. If you don’t get asked to eat when you are at my place, it’s usually not a good sign. So after all her shock and surprise, her first question was, “Do you want to eat?” I took some tea first, and then for dinner we ate curry. Nothing tastes better than home food.

Ta3m el beyout fe shaware3
Ta3m el shaware3 beyout….
- Massar Egbari, Ta3m el beyout

I also had another dinner planned. I had to see Corinna before she left for Germany, and so we decided to meet with MattMatt for some Sudanese food in Dokki. Peanut sauce with eggplant, bread and Lentil Fattah, and some beef curry that I insisted on smelling since I wouldn’t eat it. MattMatt tolerated all this. We mostly talked about Corinna’s cat Fayrouz. All through my walk from Zamalek to Dokki with Matt, I regaled him with repeated expressions of “I’m so happy.” 

I am so happy. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal. I guess because it feels like stolen happiness, like this all could easily not have been. And I’ve been stealing it since my last night. 

For a small reason, the last night in India was a bit of a disappointment. Thanks to Stephanie, an old friend from grad school, I have a small jade stone with “Courage” engraved on it. I had carried it in my pocket, and it had carried me through the day. I felt in my pocket for the stone when my heart felt like it was about to sink. And it was where the phone was when Neeraj called back and said I should come over to his birthday party after all. When my plans for the evening did not pan out, I took up the offer and arrived at his doorstep with my bags. I spent the night dancing with and getting to know what I'd now happily consider some very good friends: Revati, Judith, Melodika. The plan was to leave from Neeraj's place to the airport at 4 am. At 2 the party started to wind down, and by three-ish I got into Melodika’s car, and she offered to drop me at the airport. It all worked out!

MattMatt had given me the book “The Buddha in Daily Life” when I was going to India. I read it on my way back to Cairo. Like the stone, it is one more thing holding me together.

On Amman to Cairo, there was a man sat next to me whose bag-tag said “El Warsha Theatre.” I asked him if he was indeed from the theatre, and mentioned I’d worked with D-CAF that had worked with their company. He turned out to be the founder of El Warsha. We had a long discussion which he punctuated with many quotes, anecdotes about people I knew, people we knew… I had actually forgotten all my Cairo money in India, and had planned to take a taxi home and pay by borrowing money from the kiosque downstairs, as I had done on so many occasions before. I didn’t have to. My flight companion offered to drop me home as his driver was coming to pick him up, and we were both happy to extend our conversation in which we discovered common friends and books and authors we loved.

I looked around Cairo – the sun beat warm upon as when we were outside the airport, a welcome reprieve from Delhi’s sunless winters, and as I arrived home there was a beautiful yellow sun setting over Zamalek. We drove down into Agouza, and I was happy happy happy.

I haven’t stopped saying it since. I am happy.

“You? Why? What made you come back?” she asks.

Queer You Go!

What should one make of this queer coming together of events:

A friend on facebook put forward this revelation:

Maysara:

i have this to put forward: i often feel jealous of 'queers', i think they belong to the future and that they simply possess something or experience something that i don't. not that i personally believe in sexual identity at all. i have freed myself from self-identification altogether. Yet i am always curious to experience or internalize about anything that is not yet incorporated with my repertoire of life experience, especially if it is something that i generally feel positive about. I used to decorate my face with eyeliners and eyeshadow makeup when i was young, around the time i was in high school and university. i both liked my appearance and the way i felt toward myself when i did this. i did not mind that this was challenging to my self-image as a man, perhaps because at the time i had no self-image at all and i had nothing to lose. also our ancient grandfathers used to do exactly the same thing and i was aware of that, i was actually proud that i was reviving a tradition that ancient men used to do. men in so many different cultures around the world decorate themselves and in some cases in Africa men do it more than women. Anyways i did not mind all of this and the whole thing felt natural to me to the extent that once i forgot all about it and unintentionally went down to the grocery shop, in Cairo, to buy some eggs while i had my eyes all rounded up in black, purple, and pink! I also wore a "Zannoba" flipflop that day which is generally considered to be a feminine thing to wear in the streets. they stared at me in shock at the grocery, and i laughed about it later! Just a funny story, which only make me wonder "why" did i stop beautifying my face the way i liked? the pressure in the streets definitely had something to do with it. Sometimes i wonder and say: perhaps if i had the freedom to keep doing it, and saw that others were equally free to do it in the society, i would have eventually developed sexually in directions other than those which led to my sexual experience and self-realisation thus far. While i am totally aware that self-beautification is not conditionally related to queerness, nor is it really contradictory with heterosexuality or manliness as i understand it in the first place, and although right now i have become 30 years old and think certain things can no longer be changed or reversed in my sexuality, with which i am also generally satisfied, especially that, although i am fearless, i have not the energy, nor any particular urge toward sexual exploration, yet in the end, the most realisation i have from this facebook status that has grown too large and might become a facebook note(!) is the conditional relationship between social freedoms, and the development of individual identity. And here, we're not just talking about, say, one's political orientation or opinions about one's own career or any of this bullshit, we're talking about the development of sexual identity or/and practice; something that grows permanently deep in one's body, mind, and soul. We all know that it is something that you cannot really develop entirely independently, but only in some social context and environment or another, yet it seems that while most adults eventually accept that their children should be allowed to choose for themselves what profession or career they wish to pursue, which is something that is entirely changeable in the future and all in all seems just bullshit to me, we are yet unable to consent and provide the same degree of freedom regarding the development of our children's very sexual identities, practices, and experiences. And then we wonder, why is it that on top of all the misery in which we live, we can't even have orgasms the way we read they should feel!! How the fuck have we become more decadent than other mammals? The answer is simple: mammals, all mammals except Humans, want their newborn to survive physically and be in good health, they don't care about how and who they will fuck later on when they grow up and whether they will be like their parents! This is always for the evolving self to decide, in total and complete freedom, without pressures, without references, without limitations, without any goal or purpose, other than the pure, deep, and self-propagating pleasure and happiness of the living organism. There, and only thereby, will you get your orgasm!!

Browsing through some other facebook entries I came upon these instances of switched-dresses 

Portraits of Men Wearing their Girlfriends' Clothes



And there is yet another link along the same lines...
Switcheroo

And then a bit later, yet another link pops up, and if you ever had the question, What Does Pin-up Photography Look Like With Male Models? you need not wonder any more.

Maysara's account was the most touching to me personally because I felt the truth of his words. The other day I met a guy with painted toenails. I made immediate assumptions about his sexuality.

Only today did I also remember how I found nailpolish in a guy's apartment and was really surprised that he said it was his, rather than a girl friends'. Also I know that when his girlfriend left pajamas at his place he tried them on ;)

awake, again... and all that really matters..

It isn't easy to find that comforting thought at night that helps you put on the covers, somewhat like scene of a movie that wraps it all up, makes everything okay. Sometimes every night can be a question that is still vibrating, still unanswered, keeping you awake and occasionally google-bound.

a random search for  "all that really matters in the end..." reveals:

All that really matters in the end is that you loved. (Facebook) 

All that really matters in the end is whether we loved Jesus so much that we fed his sheep and cared for His lambs. (Guardians of Hope Foundation)

As long as there is no intentional harm, all that really matters in the end is the results. The ends do justify the means, as long as the means are not mean. (The Dating Black Book)  

Sometimes, that's all that really matters in the end is how much a game and pull and absorb you into it. (Awakening, Game FAQ)

All that really matters in the end is the legend that grows up around him." "He became someone else. Then again, he always was. (Velvet Goldmine quotes)

All that really matters in the end is that you were brave enough to search on the inside to find the people, experiences and life that you did on the outside (The Shortcut to Nowhere, article on Elite Daily). 

    

late night thoughts...

...make the best scribbles.

I cross my feet sometimes while standing as I'm brushing my teeth. My right foot on top of the other. I am able to appreciate this as a sign of 'myself-ness,' as something that I and only I typically do. I wonder if my child will do that. I wonder perhaps if my child would do that if they never saw me do it. I wonder perhaps if I will have a child.

I think I would want to, and I think I would want the father to know, and to love these things about me, and to look for them in his child as I would, if their feet cross when they brush their teeth. I would want them to want that their child too rest one foot on the other leg, almost yoga-style in tree position, as they wash dishes. 

But mostly, I realise now, that I want to be this me: the one whose right foot is on her left foot while she brushes her teeth, whose right foot leans on her left knee while she washes dishes - not good, not bad, but just me.

Timothy-Joseph

One could stay through all of autumn
and shed not a single dry leaf.
Thank you, for all the world's willows,
for the many that weep for him.

Goodbye Timothy-Joseph. May you rest in peace. x

Talking with the enemy

Ever since I grew my curls
I miss you less.

Give in to the night.

Give in to the night,
That thing called sleep.

But it seems the day is unfinished, and sleep cannot be so easily earned.

Been thinking lately how abstaining from talking may help writing, venting the inner conversation about things that need not be discussed, but simply transferred to paper (or blog), and developed further. 

So lately I've been really touchy about the issue of 'appreciation,' about 'how much I have done for so-and-so' and how ungrateful they have been.

And it made me think about C, and how he seemed to run from all my 'help,' because it probably did come with strings attached, even if those strings attached no particular end, but only a particular person - me. Stay close to ME, they'd say, tying him in a web of an intimacy sought through favours that could not be returned, and should not be returned.

And it also made me realise that for a very long time, I may have been seeking to sell favours, for something unspoken in return. Sometimes I say I Joyful Girl, but other times I'm not so Ani diFranco about it. Hell even Ani diFranco isn't so selfless about it, if she needs to remind herself.

And sometimes I resent it so much, this sense that because of all this unsolicited giving, I've been taken for granted. Or worse that people see it, and don't want it anymore, favours that don't come for a named price, that make them feel weighed and sentenced to you on indefinite terms.

Fuck them.

I hate this children's-book mental image of the world, where it echoes back whatever you send forth.

"Fuck you, world!"

"Well, fuck you too, child!"

It's so hard to say the opposite when you're having one of those moments with the world.

"You're pissing me off right now, world, but it's not you, it's me. And someday soon, I will see you are all beautiful... It kind of evades me now."

Sounds like a break up.


Strangely at the same time there have been contemplations on commitment - on marriage and lowering expectations. And it makes an awful lot of sense that people are going to change and hate each other's guts, and what endures is something else than the passion which seems to be the only thing people associate with love these days. (These days, as if I had had incarnations of marital experience).



Well, Feck It. :P

Probably my most poorly constructed post ever, but Feck It too. 

I Give In To Reading Which Gives In To The Night.

And so it is

Thank you, Rachel.

If not a book, at least this blog is revived thanks to you.

And there it is again, the fear of revealing too much, the fear of being too honest while looking at a mirror for fear that what I may see would be too ugly. It's the inner venom - funny enough, C.K. used that word too to describe my spewing. Maybe it hurt because it was so right.

This is going to come out like a journal, and maybe you were hoping for more creative work.

Well, too bad, innit? ;)

So I've been feeling bummed, and since that's all I care to think about I'll just write about that till I bore myself.

And just then, I see this, so pretty - a reversible fabric bag I bought at the FleaMarket in Germany, handcrafted by someone and for EURO 5 but worth so much more... happiness and a smile for brightening an otherwise glum moment.

I leave you with this:

May we create and enjoy such prettiness, all the time :)

No one will read this

That is what I have to tell myself before I blog these days, because I am too afraid and too silent. So you are not really reading this. :)
....
... I'm blocked again, because I acknowledged you.

I wish I was Mary Oliver, kind and old and wise. But especially I'd have liked to be kind, to myself, to you. Here is what Mary Oliver would have said:

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.


and here is what I can say...

...
...

Looking at You

You sit quietly so well:
your hands don't fidget,
your lips do not tremble.

If it were not for your eyes,
your large, overwhelming eyes,
I would not know you were
crying.


I wrote the above but I do not like the above. Mainly because it ends with 'crying' - I wish I had found another way to say it, but right now am not keen to find another way, am lazy - and I just want to get this on paper before it disappears like other lines in my head. Lines like:
"I like to stare at dead things." I'm going to try to put that in a story. A story that has another line like "Then why do you keep our pictures still?"

Cinco Poemas de Amor

Pride has no place on overcrowded
buses on longish journeys.
the seat next to mine is empty
i saved it
for you.

***********************************

S. during Cairo Revolution, on Facebook

its not possible

to say something normal

except, i wish i had a girlfriend

i could talk to in the night

when the day is over

but probably it would weaken me

and take too much time

so i wish i could read a story

or at least have the time for it

because in my phantasy i wanna go away and far

to a marvellous place

where there are stories

about humans

***********************************

Definition: Found Poetry

Poetry that finds you
You find it back sometimes.


***********************************

Do you still have feelings for him / her?

Do you still have feelings?

That is all right perhaps, because then

He / She too may have feelings for you, and

You still have feelings.

***********************************

Pretty thoughts pass my mind so often

But they pass like clouds

and I forget or fail to collect

the words they rain on me.

***********************************