Half a decade of : An homage.

‘Reconstituted apple juice’* How many JUDE-ians were into The Doors? Im going to go out on a limb and assume all or most of us. An American Prayer, a Sony Walkman, AA batteries-these were ‘a few of my favourite things’, also a microcosm of my existence in the University at large. Somewhere in there are books. Orientation day, we were asked what book we were reading. I was on Timothy Mo-The redundancy of courage and Maya Angelou. The Prof. meh-ed my Mo’. She seemed undecided on Madam Angelou. Some twenty minutes before that, the 2nd year students sauntered in for the obligatory ‘ragging’ ritual. Let me just say that I was more intrigued than scared. This was the summer of 2001, a world away from Facebook or even Myspace. Poor sap of a future classmate and I were ‘forced’ to re-enact cyber sex-ing. Us cool kids first asked a/s/l back then. My ‘partner’, heretofore uninitiated into the big bad world of online chatting, was confuzzled and so that was that. Bobbed hair, race car-red. A world of possibilities. What with ‘Dryden’ telling us , in the initiation class, and I paraphrase, you are no longer in uniform. You are college kids, nobody’s going to come after ‘yo azz’ for not being vigilant about class-goings. Yep! No Gestapo this faculty. As a result of which much of my time on campus was spent ON campus. I divulge with amused embarrassment, that only two, of the esteemed JUDE faculty remember me. But being remembered is not so much important as what I remember and Still hold dear. Our 1st year undergrad classroom, opposite the library, where I spent very little time. Our 4th sem Masters room, next to Tintinda’s office, where i spent far more considerable time having wizened up about classes by my fifth year. I close my eyes and remember each memory , the associations I associate with each teacher: ADG, hand(often hands) in pockets, pacing from one corner of the front of the class to the other, never looking at the class, lost in his brilliant discourse. Some girls had crushes. Rimidi wildly gesticulating, every so very often pushing up her glasses. PB eyes about to roll out of their sockets under Old English eyebrows, extrapolating about Grendel’s mother. A.Lal upright on the chair, fingers interlaced, not a hair or moustache out of place clipping on on Donne. Oh and the Graham Greene optional i took with SC, which i never could fully concentrate on because i think most of the time i was too caught up imagining her karate-chopping goondas in her sari. The other SC blub blub blubbing away on the Shakespeare. . Oh and Tintin sitting On a classroom table, chai in one hand, waxing lyrical about Sartre and the French Rev.(olution). Some things are indelible. And the friends! Such wonderful crazy kooky weird wired incredibly incredulous people. No country for the lily-livered those halls. Wherever my lot is doing whatever, I like to think we are all still ground breaking-ly earth shatteringly rolling eyes at convention. Did we smuggle cheat sheets on occasion? Was the boys’ room strewn with books during exams ? Did I fashion joints in class on more than one occasion? Was I a bad student nay the worst nay bottom of the barrel? This is all heresay. You didn’t hear nuthin’ from me. I always say Kolkata is my second home. However far I’ve travelled in what places I’ve lived in, when I talk about my country, when I imagine my country, I imagine Kolkata. I imagine Jadavpur University. I imagine the girl who lived in this space in a time in the world, shaped by all these people, all these places, all these experiences. It cannot be documented in 600-800 words. I try. As I sit here re-memory-ing from my desk in a 9-5 sarkari office, I think, I turned out ok(!) *contact Mr. Simon Jennings for info.

21 songs

Song 1) River by Joni Mitchell- Now Joni Mitchell wrote many songs many beautiful songs but this one sticks for me. Maybe because the first time I heard the song was when I stumbled on a Tori Amos cover of it on Youtube. I am by nature a sucker for poetry in song writing and thus began the research into Joni Mitchell. Yes, through Tori Amos I ‘discovered’ Joni Mitchell and grew to love most of her work. ‘A case of you’ is insanely heart-wrenchingly beautiful but it was is and always will be River for me. A friend asked me which song I thought was the saddest song in the world and he mentioned songs like R.E.M’s Everybody hurts and Clapton’s Cry me a river. What I ‘see’ when I listen to River is a vast frozen lake where alone-ness has cast a shadow of devastation that no Sun can salvage.

Song 2) Army of me by Bjork- A long time ago in an interview on TV, Bjork described herself as a ‘musical scientist’. I truly believe no critic-writer-journalist will ever even come close to describing her as aptly and with such needle-point precision as she did herself. I saw her live once and i have to say I’ve never seen such power exuding from such a tiny body(save for myself hehe). So its only right and fair that she and only she write a song titled Army of Me. Because she really is an army unto herself.

Song 3) I want you by Elvis Costello(with Fiona Apple)- As much as I love Madame Morissette, Costello had written the fuck-you-ex-lover song a ways before ‘You oughta know’. I of course found it post millennium when he let Fiona Apple unleash her scorned woman wrath and fury onto the song. I dare say even Costello wasn’t aware of the potency of his lyrics until that moment. It lives in my life as an Elvis Costello song brought to life by Fiona Apple’s innate anguish as a woman.

Song 4) Ballad in plain d by Bob Dylan- ‘…a bird’s free from the chains of the sky way’. The song is about a man who sleeps with his beloved’s bitch sister because she is ..well bitchy…and sex with her seemed criminal and exciting. At least that’s my interpretation of it. And the sense of guilt and loss he feels after the fact is nothing short of tragically epic. We all know Dylan’s It, me more so than most others. Out of the hundreds of songs that he has given us, in this moment and time, not for any particular reason, I choose Ballad in Plain D as my go to Dylan song.

Song 5) Ruby Tuesday by The Rolling Stones- Of course Ruby Tuesday is who I believe I am in some alternate universe. Ruby Tuesday seems to me the quintessential ‘flower’ girl, the epitome of Hippydom and its ideals. Ruby as me drinks copious amounts of the local beer of any place she happens to find herself in, loves the men there with a ferocity only she is capable of, tells of her travels like an old wise woman by the hearth and then gets on to the next town baby. Even Mick Jagger in his sexy pelvic swaying thrusting days couldn’t have swayed her. So yes. Ruby in Ruby Tuesday- the girl that wouldn’t be caged. The song kind of has refrains of Dylan’s Gypsy Lou poem though I cant picture them becoming very good friends

Song 6) I hope I don’t fall in love with you by Tom Waits- I imagine the ‘Pianoman’ from Billy Joel’s Pianoman playing in the bar where this song happens. Ive never been to a small-town-middle-america bar but Ive been to enough bars and seen enough films that have small-town-middle-america bar scenes to know feel and love the two lonely strangers in this song. Tom Waits’ guttural croonings create the absolutely perfect soundtrack to the love story that almost happens but doesn’t.

Song 7) Fight for your right to party by The Beastie Boys- This song came out when my generation was still wearing Catholic School uniforms. Living in a small ‘city’ in the nether regions of North East India, a song such as this exploded into my system. I had never smoked, never drank(except for the one time me and my best friend stole into her parents’ parlour and emptied the emptying glasses of whiskey our dads were drinking) and only fleetingly kissed a boy. And the Beastie Boys told us to ‘fight for our right to party’. It was so unreal as to seem a concept. But I immediately loved the song-the screeching delivery against the jarringly awesome beat. Must be the first stirrings of the rebel without a cause and pause who manifested in her entirety a few years later who went on to constantly fight for her right to party.


Song 8) Maryjane by Alanis Morrissette- Those of you who know me know that I survived most of my adult life because of Madame Morissette’s music. It is therefore no wonder that much like picking a favorite Bob Dylan song, it becomes impossible to pick me a favorite Alanis Morissette song. Which is why I don’t pick a favorite Dylan song even if I may have one and the same goes for my goddess of the late 90’s and early millennia. The reason Maryjane stands out is because I know her. I am not her but I know her. Maryjane lives(d) in all of us. We are not her in her entirety but pieces of her resides(d) in us. The confidence we become deprived of because of a once long ago time when we had something stuck in our front teeth and we laughed unknowingly in front of strangers and forever more harbour the silent fear of public humiliation. The fear of being alone, for all time. The fear of failure. The fear of disappointing. The fear of being disappointed. The fear of being unsexy. The fear of losing all your marbles. But in the midst of all her fears, Maryjane has a someone who tells her that everything will eventually work out. I like to believe that everything eventually worked out for Maryjane.

Song 9) In my daughter’s eyes by Martina Mcbride- John Lennon wrote a song for his son Sean. Ben Harper wrote a song for Heath Ledger’s daughter Matilda. And Martina Mcbride wrote a song for her daughter. It would appear that the birth of new life becomes a source of great inspiration for artists. This song offers a different perspective. What a parent must seem to a child- a hero, strong and wise knowing no fear. But that is not the reality. The reality is that the helpless baby had been sent to rescue the life-weary adult parent from the travails of existence. My dog does this to me-gives me joy and makes me feel loved no matter what I do or who I am or am not.'we can never establish with certainty what part of our relations with others is the result of our emotions-love, antipathy, charity or malice- and what part is pre-determined by the constant power play among individuals. true human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power'-The Unbearable lightness of being.

Song 10) The Blower’s Daughter by Damien Rice- Damien Rice supposedly wrote this song for his clarinet teacher’s daughter whom he fancied. It is in the hands of true artists that something as ordinary and redundant as a young person’s infatuations is elevated to a level of unreal beauty. To say nothing of Lisa Hannigan’s haunting vocals that was the touchstone of Damien’s songs. This song was used in the soundtrack of the film ‘Closer’ and in the opening scene where Jude Law and Natalie Portman’s characters walk towards each other in a sea of people. Yes, in slow motion. And the song( at least for me) moved them, like a strong invisible force towards each other. I am aware that I get uncharacteristically emotional when it comes to art and I am unashamed. Yes, the song turns me to jelly because it is so buddhadamn beautiful. The End.

Song 11) Teardrop by Massive Attack- This is the type of song that gives one a musical orgasm. Trip hop at its bestest best. Enough said.

Song 12) Holiday by Vampire Weekend- Listen to this song on a clear sunny day in Spring when its not too cold and not too hot, outside. I could give a whole litany about the genius of the album Contra but this spiel is about singles only. From the intro’s onset, the song’s reason for being is as happily evident as a holiday ticket in your hand. And much like a holiday, it gets better with every progression. But unlike Kurt Cobain’s saturation point where there’s nowhere else to go but down, Holiday saturates and fills itself to fullness without ever bursting. And for this reason, whenever the world gets too heavy for me, I hop on my scooter, put my mp3 player on repeat to Holiday and I set off. It never fails to render the world light and breezy, even if the wind in hair from scooter ride has something to do with it.

Song 13) In your atmosphere by John Mayer- There are heart-breaking love songs and then there are heart-breaking love songs. John Mayer has been put through much mud-slinging and calling of names (douchebag comes to the fore) for his antics with women. Listen to this song and I dare you to call him a heartless player douchebag still. I will allow myself to digress for a bit to dwell on infidelity and general playing of field. Let’s face it, we’ve all been douchebags in relationships. Just that we are not under constant public scrutiny so we are not called on our douchebaggery. Back to the song. If you’ve ever been in love and have had your heart broken and you’ve come undone, the millions of molecules in your body threatening to wander off to leave you like a shapeless helpless blob of grasping but never catching hold, this song is it. When all you desire is to see that person but are so frighteningly aware that a sighting will cause you to die a horrible emotional death. So it is suicide. To be in the same atmosphere. So you steer clear. If you have any sense. But do lovers do?

Song 14) Wherever you are by Celeste Prince- Its amazing how misdirection and misinformation sometimes lead you to things that will be cherished by you always. I am an unashamed illegal downloader and on one of my many trollings for mp3 downloads, I found this song. I was in actuality looking for Paula Cole songs and thanks to an errant uploader who didn’t do his research right, I downloaded the song because I thought it was a Paula Cole song. And I cried after a couple of listens. The song articulates what the spirits of our dead loved and gone feel about our sense of loss at their going. Its one of those songs that is infinitely sad because of the hope and optimism they posit.

Song 15) Me and Bobby Mcgee by Kris Kristofferson( sung by Janis Joplin)- Sometimes I wonder if this song would be as important and here if Janis hadn’t gotten hold of it and made it her own. Because to be honest, Kris Kristofferson’s country drawl does not exactly do justice to the two people in the song. A country music rendering of two renegades in the 60’s does not exactly fit. Or maybe its just me. I don’t know. Much like Whitney Houston’s cover of Dolly Parton’s ‘I will always love you’ is a universe better than the original( some people may differ here too) and the world now associates that song with Whitney and not Dolly, so it is with Janis’s Bobby Mcgee cover. To say it is a cover seems almost criminal and wrong. Of all the tortured female singers(artists), Janis wore the proverbial hat the best. You know when she sings that song, she had her own ‘Bobby Mcgee’ in mind and that she celebrated their mad beast love that was so evanescent.

Song 16) Coming up easy by Paolo Nutini- The story goes that Paolo loved(s) his marijane and the song is an ode to his struggle to kick the habit. More than enough songs have been written about our much loved and beloved Miss Marijane. But this rendering is different, not just because its pop-infused and peppy. Paolo takes us into his world and a day in the life of Mr. Nutini and his lover. In the video, there’s a giant rabbit to symbolize the addiction and the ‘Wonderland’ imagery is subliminally apparent. It is this incredibly sunny portrayal of marijuana addiction (or for that matter addiction of any nature.) that captivates and makes the song …endearing.

Song 17) Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond- My Mizo friends will know the middle-aged man with cowboy boots and 5 gallon hat, the Mizo Elvis, the little guy with the guttural(contrived?) drawl. Well, the first time I heard the song was when this ‘Elvis’ guy sang the song at a beauty pageant of all places. I didn’t know it was a Neil Diamond song at the time(Gadzooks! I know) but it made me happy. For no reason at all it made me happy. Two years later, in a karaoke room somewhere in Ansan City, South Korea, a friend sang the song. We were all more than mildly intoxicated so even the plinky plonk karaoke rendering of the music was all good. Anyway, maybe it was that jolly plump Elvis dude in cowboy boots and shirt buttons begging to pop around the belly or it was Nathan’s happy drunk version or even Neil Diamond’s original(!), the minute my ears hear the first beat of Sweet Caroline, I become inordinately and inexplicably happy.

Song 18) Simple Together by Alanis Morissette- Ok. You didn’t really think there’d be just one Morissette song on the list did you?! Here’s the other one. As an avid Alanis fan, I think I can say with some conviction that a lot of her writings center around her relationships and their inevitable ensuing demise( although im happy to report that she is now happily married and has a beautiful baby boy). Simple Together is a song about two people who seemed to have been as the saying goes made for each other but for some reason or another became un-made for each other. I’ve always held the belief that we all have soulmates( yes, in the romantic sense yes). I also believe that one doesn’t necessarily end up with one’s ‘soulmate’ and that’s ok. In fact, I think soulmates are doomed to separate or be separated. There’s too much volatile energy always. Too much love. And you know what they say about too much of anything…it will kill you. So in order to survive, the soulmates in Simple Together separate, even though she knew God’s face was handsome because of him.

Song 19) Wouldn’t it be nice by The Beach Boys- A totally cheesy(so cheesy you need crackers to watch it cheesy) yet wonderful movie which had me and my friend bawling like 3 year olds has this song on its soundtrack. Its young love. The kind we all know. The place we’ve all been. 18( maybe younger for some hehe) and the whole world in front of you, just a hair’s breadth out of reach. You want the house nay the home with the one you are madly in love with and you see babies and pets of all kinds, neighbours just like you and your head so full of things to do its all you can do to hold it all in. But youre 18. You cant have a house or home, not just yet. Or start a family or have pets and neighbours like you. So you sing the Beach Boys’ song…’wouldn’t it be nice if we were older and we wouldn’t have to wait so long. Wouldn’t it be nice to live together in the kind of house where we belong’


Song 20) Samson by Regina Spektor- I was in Delhi for a visit.Spent a night before heading home at a friend’s after having what felt like my heart broken. Kind wonderful Ruth, I have one more reason to love her. She introduced me to Regina Spektor and the song that saved me, Samson. ‘ you are my sweetest downfall’ seemed insanely apt for a girl with a broken inner. So like all songs that you strike an instant connection to, I had it on repeat for about a month after leaving the capital. Then I did my research. Yes, I’m one of those that needs to know all the lyrics of who sang what song exactly and why
( finding out the why can be tricky sometimes , heresy and all that). So Samson was written by Regina Spektor about a friend of hers who was suffering from cancer. What an ode it is. My little pseudo heartbreak sadness pales in comparison. But here’s the thing, when I listen to the song now after knowing the story behind it, I find it uplifting. Them two, alone in a room, his hair falling off eating only Wonderbread. She cuts his hair, like Delilah cuts Samson’s, and he is weak and dissipating. Nobody knows their story, in what tragic bliss they spend their days. My heart breaks, for real, at the complete utter and pure beauty of this song, into pieces I didn’t even know existed my heart breaks, at the beauty of this song.

Song 21) Forever young by Bob Dylan- The simplicity and genuineness of feeling housed in this song makes it unnecessary to write about it really. Every time I have to say goodbye to a person dear, this song is my parting gift.

things and thoughts pt-1

because i am lazy and have the attention span of a 3 year old, ive had many many inspirings to write but none of them have come to fruition. i am here now at work, with a 100+ page contract to read and find loopholes in.it is this situational circumstance that now motivates me to write surprise surprise.(any way to get away from work hurrah)

so...Osama's dead.shot.killed. and the world rejoices. i think this wrong. the world may be better without the Osamas of the world but there are still(and always will be, albeit sadly) monsters out there.just that their names are not Osama or muhammed or salim and they dont blatantly and audaciously bomb twin towers and mono towers. death is final and complete and real. the death of ANY person. people who die have families. even 'monsters'. an episode of Greys Anatomy once centered around a shooting at a high school. the mother of the young man who'd shot and killed a number of his school-mates cried alone in a corner of the waiting room unable to believe and come to terms with the fact that her son was a murderer. meanwhile, the shooter-kid was on the operating table bleeding and dying from a gunshot wound fired by the Police and some of the doctors refused to operate on him because he was a murderer. while the mother waited for her son. now this is TV. but you know what they say, art imitates life (which i truly believe to be true by the way). to the mother of the killer, the killer is not the killer but the person she gave birth to. i am aware that this might be a poor argument in considering men like Osama Bin Laden. but so often, much too often, we consider ourselves first and too quickly. i am flawed. as are we all. some more so than other. i am screwed up. as are we all. some more so than others. i grieve the absence of grief for the person whose death brought joy to the world. 'the fools we are as men'

where does Beast begin?

this is a thought that has surfaced many many times. i say many many times because unfortunately many many times, we as human beings let out our claws our fangs. and every time a killer is killed in order that justice is served, i flinch.
so it is, today, a rapist was beaten by an angry mob. a sick- in-the-head pedophile, raped and killed a 4 year old girl. hence, the beating. he succumbed to his 'injuries' a few hours later. there is anger, hurtful anger in the air.and talk goes around.. how he had it commin', he must be made a lesson of(for future rapists.how absurd!).
here are some thoughts from a generally apathetic creature(i dread calling myself a human BE-ing at this moment):
is reason and logic involved in rape?
do rapists think things through before they rape? do they think...what if i get caught? will i be jailed, gaoled, shackled? will i be beaten black and blue? will i be hanged electrocuted? will i be raped in return for my rape?
do rapists think these thoughts?

does anyone have the right to take someone else's life? no? so is that why we have prisons? to cage the ones that dare to claim a right, to a person's life(and death)?

but if we do it to stake some sort of moral justice, it becomes ok? condone-able?

let THIS be a lesson! let this death, of this 'beast' be a lesson! really?

my grandfather died of asthma. he smoked. let this be a lesson.my father was a borderline chain smoker. i smoke. let this be a lesson.

your fellow rapist has been bludgeoned to death. beware. be aware.rapists of the now.rapists of the future!

i say to you, torch bearers of an ideal, how will you sleep at night, days from now, weeks from now, months from now, years from now?
the rapists will sleep, the murderers will sleep. reason does not guide their choice.
what guides your choice, you men that dole out moral justice through the jabs of your fist, through the kicks of your feet?

a killing is never made ok by a killing. and if i live in a world where that has become an inevitability, i do not wish to live in it.

21 things i want in a lover

do you like babies
do you like dogs
can you dance like there's no tomorrow
do you like meat and are you an any sports fanatic
do you have big hands that will correspond with my small ones
will you think that surrendering is actually freedom
do you enjoy poetry even if you do not write
are you a voracious reader and can hold your own with the best of them
do you enjoy comfortable silences as much as laughter
can you be silly on occasion
are you strong really strong and not be bent by adversarial circumstances
can you adapt
do you believe and does that belief spur you on
do you possess prowess
can you USE that prowess
are you patient and accommodating
can you read minds
can you anticipate me
can you speak to my fears
can you love me on the condition that i love you and nothing else

the bus

i ride an hour on the bus the ride is bumpy and swerves and throws you sideways left and right and if you dont know the person sitting next to you you feel uneasy its not your intention to push into their space
but i have a seat i always get a seat the two days ive 'travelled'
the drive i savour with every riff that plays on my music player today i wished singing out loud suddenly in public places(buses) wasnt considered off kilter i wanted to sing along with paula cole about how my baby's got me feelin love
i love how the view is the same but not the houses some grand some not the lives our bus passes by
i love the hour bus ride
i hope i always get a seat.get through my daily playlist. crane my head sideways the whole way to see the outside as i sit in the inside of the bus

I want your hands

I want your hands
Your fingers to messy themselves in the dark tangles of my hair
I want your hands
Your fingers to chart territory on the compass of my body
I want your hands
Your fingers to fit with mine
Like
Key
To
Lock

choice

i pleaded God to give me my object choice
God said:my greatest gift to Mankind is free will
that was the end of it

them

She butchers tropical fruits
Cuts her own hair.
Seen and done too many things

He sits like a girl at times
Crossing legs
Yet she is rendered limp when he moves his mouth

punctuations

My feel for you boy is consuming my insides like wildfire and I am scared to death of what I will be capable of if you retreat.

There was too many magic happening too many likes and similarities and coincidences to not think the meeting was fated

A day without a talk spent in paranoid obsessive assumptions leading to deletion of certain frames of an identity

Not in the inside though not in the inside

The wait is long it seems and lonely and excruciating and there seems no reprieve for hours still the connect is felt to have been lost

How frantic a grasp should be exercised to get back the what was almost had so it becomes a real possession a something to cherish and hold on to and fight for come what may

Death makes angels of us all

today we went to pay our condolences to one of our student's family whose dad had passed away. he lived with oesophagus cancer for close to a year. and died of it. various people spoke of the occassion of the bereaved family and of the deceased.mostly of the deceased. i had tears brimming when the new widow got up to say how she dreads going to sleep and when she did sleep how she dreads waking up. in our culture, it is said that the pain of losing one's spouse is akin to hacking one's shoulder off(or something to that effect). personally i think it MUST be more painful than that. personally i dont think the loss(death) of a spouse(if love is shared) is NOT akin to any other pain in this world. and therefore shouldnt be compared to any other pain.
that said
the other thing that crossed my mind is this
'death makes angels of us all'
what was Jim thinking of when he wrote this? because i feel its truth. when people come forth to speak at funeral wakes, it is only the good in them that they speak of. never he/she was: petty/deceptive/contrary/shallow/narrow. i dont mean to take anything away from the memory of dead people(pardon my crudeness) but i find it strangely amusing that we,that are alive, feel the need to make angels of those that are gone. not before they are gone. but. after they are gone. hmmm.how contrary.
my father died when i was sixteen. and by all accounts(after his gone state), my father was goodness and kindness incarnate. like i said, i was sixteen, too consumed in my own existence to really know or even want to know anything about my father save for what he stood for, for me, ie a father. so i never knew what kind of person my father really was. not really.
and all the years hence, when people(his friends/acquaintances/colleagues/subordinates etc) realise that i am my father's daughter, the most i can infer from their accounts of their time with him is what an angel he was.now, this is all fine and dandy.because what daughter wouldnt want to hear that her father was a good man?!
but sometimes, someeeetimes, i wish someone would tell me who my father REALLY was. his 'exits' and 'entrances' so i could know what about me in me is a living part of my father.

and i look at the student and think...young person, henceforth, you will only ever know that your father was good and kind and steadfast and true. will you grow from this knowledge in this knowledge.

i requote The Lizard King: Death makes angels of us all and gives us wings where we had shoulders smooth as raven's claws.

edit: i also just remembered this one time i was at YMA night for the deceased in our neighbourhood and when one of the YMA 'hruaitu's' got up to speak loftily of the deceased, a drunk a few seats behind us mumbled,'why didnt he say all these nice things to him when he was alive?' LOL

a la precious illusions

this landscape is so barren and dry
devoid of joy and life
it was just a while ago lush and green
thriving on newness and all that that entailed
limp limbs ensues
the innards feel wrecked
by them big wrecking balls

THE DEATH OF PINK

‘The Shop Around The Corner’ had been there as far back as I could remember. Funny, now that I think about it, it is not so much around the corner as it is ON the corner. But ‘around’ gives a magical feel to it, like candy floss that melts in your mouth, when you roll it around the tongue, washing your insides with the sugary sweetness of childhood and innocence.

I remember buying my first book from there. A library full of books later, I’m back to Mrs. Edie Bloom and her tiny shop. Time has stood still. People walk by. New people, who cant know or feel the end of an era for the playground-full of children whose lives have been shaped by the slight little lady who is no more. My generation is indebted to Mrs Edie and others like her who looked hard enough to recognize the preciousness in children.

Story-time in The Shop Around The Corner lured every kid crazy for ice cream and soft-ball, to the small dark nook under the stairs where she sat, waiting for us to curb the restless excitement of play that dusted us dirty and grubby. Lemonade in tall glasses, with drops of water running down the sides. Condensation, a word I learnt one such afternoon, thirty something years ago. I have been condensed too, from a world much too weary to carry me weightless on its shoulder.

‘ So, we’re finally here, huh.’ My daughter looks out of the car window at the shop with intense concentration in a kind attempt to recapture my enchanted childhood. ‘Yes, we’re finally here.’ The finality of the moment envelops me in poignant calmness. As we proceeded up the steps, I hear a familiar voice, now adult, and I turned round to see my old neighbour, Alison Knobb. ‘ Just like old times’, Alison remarks and immediately realizes the inappropriateness of her words. A silence hung over our heads and I sensed I must rescue Alison from her well-intentioned slight so I took her hand in mine. Elizabeth’s eyes expressed confusion mixed with complete comprehension of what the holding of hands revealed. Children can be a lifetime wiser than adults and Lizzie’s wisdom made me love her more, if that was possible.

The shop, as we enter, is people-filled. Faces known and long forgotten suddenly become friends again in an instant. Old, young, middle-aged. Friends, family, strangers. Mrs. Edie had called us all together under one roof to become a community of like-minded companions, sharing one thought, indebted to one person.

I hadn’t worn black, as was customary, nor had I dressed Lizzie in black. As I look about the room, I see people in a rainbow of colours. It seems more like a wedding or a celebration of a happy occasion than a funeral wake. People were mourning, and at the same time, they were not. Conversation passed itself around the room like cake, and everyone seemed to savour its bittersweet taste.

My own sense of tranquility, I believe, came from the fact that I’d grown to look on death not as an end but rather as a beginning. I am not religious. The whole Heaven and Hell thing seemed to me a concept, an idea too distant to relate to. All I know is that human beings are bigger than Death. We are much more companionable and friendly. My father died when I was sixteen, and I remember feeling shattered and raped by death. I also remember Mrs Edie standing on our doorstep with a plate of pink Jell-O. Somewhere in my teenage mind, I recall thinking how grotesque anything pink would look against a black back-drop. I did not like the colour pink then and my feelings towards it have not changed. Thinking back though, looking back, I found it strange that Mrs Edie had chosen to bring me pink Jell-O, considering I was already too old to even mildly appreciate candy, unless it came from a boy. Yet in that moment, her inappropriate gift consumed my sadness and my father became a pink memory, nestled about in a halo of stars.

Im suddenly assaulted by a ridiculous thought, sweet in its absurdity. ‘Everyone must be thinking pink.’ I could not explain the comfortable tranquility of the mourners otherwise. As my daughter trails patiently behind me, I recognize faces, and I associate each one with a memory. Amanda Waters who had wanted to be Rapunzel. Brian Cooper, the prince who kissed Snow White( Alexis Minton). Tom ‘Jumbo the Elephant’ Silver. I see Amanda’s got Rapunzel’s golden tresses and Brian’s Snow White is beside him. We are all intertwined by afternoons at Mrs. Edie’s, with lemonade and fantasy.

Someone behind my back inquires about the fate of the bookshop, now that the ‘lil old lady’ was gone. ‘Her niece is putting it up for sale’, is another voice’s reply. My ‘Think Pink’ calm slowly dissipates like cigarette smoke, creating chaos in the air.

My callousness chokes me suddenly. Why had I never known that she was all alone? Most every single day of my childhood wrapped up in her world of pink and every other happy colour and I’d never thought to venture beyond the bookshop. Mrs. Edie had begun and ended with the bookshop. She was all of it and it was her. Now it was going to some corporate giant without a face, without a body, and my childhood haven would be torn down. Helplessness seized me and all the colour was wiped out of my head.

We live our entire lives trying to outrun inevitabilities that will never defer to us.



A month or so later, I’m back on the same street, watching the demolition men set up their equipment to tear down ‘The Shop Around The Corner’. I hold my daughter’s hand as we watch in silence the last of the beams fall. I realized at that moment that this was the way it was supposed to be. She must have known it too, Mrs Edie, the inevitability of things and places and people. Continuity is merely a word we like to play with to tell ourselves all is not lost. And indeed, all was not lost because memory remains, safe from the lepered hands of time.

As we drive away from the place that once housed my dreams, I finally understood a poem Mrs.Edie used to read to us:

“But she and Death, acquainted,
Meet tranquilly as friends,
Salute and pass without a hint-
And there the matter ends.

he said he would be proud as punch to be her fella
she smiled
and they wait for the feelings to settle

to really write about the present

what i am doing right now
writing a personal letter
at the tail-end of 27
i strive to walk hallowed halls
for posterity's sake
for expectations' sake
for ambitions' sake
for Tori's sake
for hapiness's sake
for spirit's sake
for an existence-void-of-non-existence's sake

home the geography is a difficult territory
necessitating pushes and shoves
and back-against-the-walls

this strive can fall through
founded on yo yo resolve
there's a time frame
can/might/will still shimmy through
do
DO!
polly
DO!

What it feels like for a girl

When I do the work and the work
When I watch my hemlines and my necklines
When I watch my mouth and what I put in it
When I go to church and when I pray
When I get good grades and over achieve
When I sever ties to make way for purported new ties
When I don’t get on a plane to see the hills every morning

Why is it not enough?
Why am I not ‘perfect?’

Back backwards bending
Just so I can accommodate my heritage
I cherish my heritage
Not so much, that I break.
Thank you.
No perfect daughter/sister/wife/woman.
I pledge my allegiance to sin woman

the frog prince

he has a thing for russian girls
them long legged blondes
perfect prototypes of Occidental Eve

truth-1

So here’s to you
My yo yo love
We wound each other up
Nice and tight
Snug and happy
Then the let go-ing
We become unwound
Farther and farther from the center
With each rotation,
A shedding:
Want
Care
Longing
Need
Love.
The distance is stretched to its limits
There is much clenching, gritting, gnarling, clawing and scratching

Do we roll back up?
Will the nice and tight-ness be the same?
Can there be snug happiness again?

If we decide to roll back up and find our things altered
May we kill each other with much letting of blood,
That our next lovers will feast only on our scraps

my winter is here with lots of rain
it is cold and unfeeling
like breaking up over the internet

on a sunday evening suddenly

when will i be rescued?
when will i realise i dont need to be rescued?
when will i be content?
when will i have what i want?
when will my thoughts bounce back inspiring me to let them out again?
when will there be a really strong hand to hold the weight of my shapelessness?
when will my new clothes fit me and when will i wear my old ones again?
when will i find direction?
when will i write perfectly and not search for words?
when will i stop trying to allude to strange ridiculous things
digging out archaic words
when will i learn to play guitar?
when will i write my first song?
when will i take a good picture?
when will i be happy with the person i am with?
when will i stop desiring the unattainable?
when will i learn to let go of old loves?
when will i appreciate my present?
when will i think only good thoughts for a whole day?
when will i stop silently obsessing over my skinny legs?
when will i read all the books i tell myself ill read?
when will i have my own house
and children
and grandchildren
and be a wise old woman doling out stories of my crazy wild ridiculous youth
to my grandchildren?
when will my mother be a grandmother?