All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another. ~Anatole France
Seven years of anonymity, freedom, independence...of fun, frolic, danger, adventure....of fear, fearlessness, never say die....of lovers, admirers and mentors....of song, dance and death....of weightloss, weightgain and obesity....of spinsterhood, of coupling and marriage.....
Many phases that made me....the places, the scents, the people, the skies that made me....I have to let them go....I am married!
From my small nest, I have to flap my wings and spread out into the next world....full of dangers and unknown abysses....for I am married!
I have to change me, my spaces, my dreams and my life....I am married!
I have an extension, a partner...to share and care....to hold and push.....to smile and love, to cry and loath....I am married!
My smoking persona, my dangling smile, my killer instincts, my on the move intellect, my tapping toes, my painted hands, my battered clothes, my wet shoes....all in some dusty box...I am married!
My stupid friends, my dopey partners, my genius admirers, my faceless lovers...at the bottom of the ocean...I am married!
This white world...full of magic and serenity....I am married!
The moments of puritanical insight when adjustment and higher love ring true with every thump of the heart....when every little jerk of the eyelid....translates into poems of understanding...when every cough means a zillion complaints...when every smile means absolute acceptance and approval....when every wisecrack means an invitation....I am married!
Purity and loyalty...the key ingredients of this coupling.....talk and song....walk and dance.....fight and slap.....kiss and make up....all about love....
I am married!
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Unnecessary Musings?
"It's Not Every Day A Fat Cat Brings You Flowers...." wrote A M Homes....
I wondered as I perused her writings on the net...the consequence of a freak search on Brad Pitt...Why hadn't I heard of her...me who prides myself for knowing every single writer who had strayed into literature...and I had not read her...leave alone know her...I had sinned...and now I had to undergo penance....
The dreams were scary....cats filled every little clean spot on my floor, on my curtains and furniture...I was petrified to say the least...and I didn't in any sense want to imitate Halle Berry....but I was beginning to crouch like I shouldn't...and my feline senses were buzzing....was that a plate of fish fry....passing me by on the floor below? mmmmm..........YIKES!!!!!!!! I was awake...Me, this puritanical brahmin iyer, dreaming of fresh fried fish? my grandmom would churn in her grave and order a bath with cow dung!
I could not afford to get fishy here...and that meant I could not sleep...for Halle Berry was now the woman of my dreams....and I liked jumping off rooftops in search for a nice stance.....hell Homes had corrupted me...
but I like tigers....majestic, unafraid, royal.....no I did not want to spend a night in the wilderness frightened that I might wake up and find myself staring into those shining slits of gold....or be worried sick that I might be grabbed by my leg and dragged along as my hair gathered leaves and sand and I screamed myself hoarse into the dark skies with nothing but an owl to respond...
but what is the purpose of what I am writing...I am lost here....
ah I wanted to do penance...but homes was away and couldn't care a damn whether I knew her or not, or I read her or not, while the rest of the world was anyways celebrating her success and her writing....
so then why am I bothering? to make up enough dough to fill this space...or pretend that I was clued into the major movements of the literary world? ah the question I am trying to answer even as I am typing this nonsense...
to be precise...Its just me trying to understand if with every passing month I am losing my touch with the language and the art of stringing together some meaningful words.....
can I continue with writing even if I woke up from a coma that lasted five years....maybe not...my fingers would be dead and sore....but I could complete a sentence in my head and make myself heard if not read....
so then should I waste time and energy....should I write?
I wondered as I perused her writings on the net...the consequence of a freak search on Brad Pitt...Why hadn't I heard of her...me who prides myself for knowing every single writer who had strayed into literature...and I had not read her...leave alone know her...I had sinned...and now I had to undergo penance....
The dreams were scary....cats filled every little clean spot on my floor, on my curtains and furniture...I was petrified to say the least...and I didn't in any sense want to imitate Halle Berry....but I was beginning to crouch like I shouldn't...and my feline senses were buzzing....was that a plate of fish fry....passing me by on the floor below? mmmmm..........YIKES!!!!!!!! I was awake...Me, this puritanical brahmin iyer, dreaming of fresh fried fish? my grandmom would churn in her grave and order a bath with cow dung!
I could not afford to get fishy here...and that meant I could not sleep...for Halle Berry was now the woman of my dreams....and I liked jumping off rooftops in search for a nice stance.....hell Homes had corrupted me...
but I like tigers....majestic, unafraid, royal.....no I did not want to spend a night in the wilderness frightened that I might wake up and find myself staring into those shining slits of gold....or be worried sick that I might be grabbed by my leg and dragged along as my hair gathered leaves and sand and I screamed myself hoarse into the dark skies with nothing but an owl to respond...
but what is the purpose of what I am writing...I am lost here....
ah I wanted to do penance...but homes was away and couldn't care a damn whether I knew her or not, or I read her or not, while the rest of the world was anyways celebrating her success and her writing....
so then why am I bothering? to make up enough dough to fill this space...or pretend that I was clued into the major movements of the literary world? ah the question I am trying to answer even as I am typing this nonsense...
to be precise...Its just me trying to understand if with every passing month I am losing my touch with the language and the art of stringing together some meaningful words.....
can I continue with writing even if I woke up from a coma that lasted five years....maybe not...my fingers would be dead and sore....but I could complete a sentence in my head and make myself heard if not read....
so then should I waste time and energy....should I write?
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