The mess

that is my room. my newspapers, my books, my teddy bears that slept with me a decade ago, the photo frames and my new accessory- the mirror. i still belong to BLOOM in the mirror- a fragment of my life of jealousy, dreams, anguish, love and those sudden moments of ownership. there were loads of things at BLOOM. mattresses, cups, vases, paintings and a dream that some day there would be a home.
there was no blaming anyone when you and i left. there wasn't enough loyalty in me and you needed them more than you needed me. and i, the usual selfish self would not settle for less. my heart reached out to men with their hand stretched our for me to hold. and i never stopped blaming your needs for everything that happened. BLOOM- maybe we faltered just once and believed it was the end.
we shall seek the end now, in documents and the like. we will undo knots, remove rings and you and i will be free again.

Coffee

at the bottom of the mug

strong bitter and molten

like the need i do not need

Sleeplessness

is sometimes like you

-a drowsy cruelty on my eyelids

thick webs of want

i cannot touch

i shut my eyes and all the world drops dead,
i open my eyes and all is born again

i break like a wisp of smog
when half a tablet
Werner lent me last year takes effect

a fragment of me slips against the mirror

i am
purple patches under the eyes

and this sleeplessness
just as incoherent and omnipresent as you

Banter

At 6ish, Sunday mornings, my fingers always itch for the keyboard to spell out more than just head counts of the dead and redundant sound bytes our politicians make. This is a special time, when once in a whole week, I watch the sun break into orange skies above the cat-tails and pussy-willows on the barren airport ground. The grimy air lifts above the organic Tinkune squalor and the tall, whitewashed buildings with tainted windows, I call my second home, come into shape.
Here is where I've evolved from a girl with boy-short hair to a woman, walking out of a marriage into another uncertainty. There were all kinds of hair-cuts. There were girlfriends to die over. There were were men who reached for my soul across the fly-smitten canteen tables. Heart. Out and out and out, I've flung it at everyone who would have a take at it. Flaunting it and leaving it at their mercy. Women. Men. How much my vanity needs them. Lies. Duplication. The same love trying to make a comeback in a new form, for the sake of my selfish self.
Let me be a little selfless today. Let me love men and women today, for their sakes. Not mine.

the bell jar

no story feels right sometimes. i feel like a recorder of events, of deaths. the transmitter of codes and messages. i cannot make my decisions over stories. sometimes, i don't make sense even to myself.

so, i'll pick the bell jar again. and i'll make sense to my senses.

Mother Damien

Dear P,
I was so happy to get your e-mail today. I am far from expert in sending and accessing e-mails, and our system has only been out in order after several weeks being out of order. Loving thanks for your prayers for my recovery, prayers to Our Lady. I would love to hear all about you and what you are doing. Nepal is very much in my thoughts and prayers there days. Iremember you with much affection. Much love M. Damien IBVM

Those were your last words to me, dated January 2009. I've been searching my mailbox for the latest and it seems we did not write to each other in 2010. Or maybe you were too ill to write and I never knew. Or maybe your fingers were too tired, trying to get the hang of the modern computers after your stubborn typewriter at Southfield, which you used with just your index fingers. In either case, I only curse myself.

I still have your letters, Mother. All of them. From Rathfarnham, from St. Stephen's Green, from Springfield, from Southfield- all of them sealed with love and prayers. No other letter's arrival could compare to the little flutter my heart did, when yours arrived. How careful I had to be to slit those aerogrammes, to ensure I did not tear your writing. How much it meant, just knowing you still remembered me and that you still called me pet. Pet. I'll always be that to you and you the tall, tall person who brought me compassion, resilience and honesty. I never hope to lose those. I always hope to remember what it means for women to be independent, strong and live the life they have chosen for themselves. I always hope to remember that to live is to make those around you happy. I cannot imagine giving my life to a cause the way you did- with such selflessness. But when I think of your blue habit, your wimple, your stockings (which sometimes ran a ladder) and your forever neatly polished shoes, I think I might try and do a little more than I am capable of. 

Since yesterday, I find myself standing in front of Loreto Hall, near the entrance, where the statue of Our Lady stands. It is year 2000 and you're returning to Dublin for good. I have soaked your white shirt with my tears and the metal of the cross on your chest is warm against my face because I've pressed myself against it for a while now. We will write to each other darling, and I'll always keep you in my prayers, you said.  

I've found myself turning less and less religious since my Loreto days, Mother. I don't have a definition for God anymore. But I know from you that praying is about the strength we transmit to those we love and those we care about. I don't know how much mine has, but what I have right now, I send it all to you.

When I shared my news of heartbreak, a dear friend wrote back today, "she did so much, the passing must have been peaceful," and knew exactly what I had hoped for you. I hope it was, Mother. 

http://thehimalayanbeacon.com/magazine/2011/04/05/darjeeling-mother-damien-leaves-for-the-holy-abode/#comments
http://expressions-impressions.blogspot.com/2011/04/to-mother-d-with-love.html

ramble

there are so many things waiting in my head to find words. i wonder when i'll have the time for it. for now, am thinking of Sherrie talking about how fashionable it used to be for women to have hair on their hands, legs and upper-lip and Abbie asking why we need to shave when men don't. and am wondering what Vasana thought of D walking into my room around midnight because I'm sure he didn't know Sherrie and Abbie were already inside, talking about everything. how much i worry about what someone thinks, while Vasana might only be busy mourning the loss of his country tonight in the World Cup cricket.
cricket. i can't even believe i've started watching a game i always thought so stupid.
i'm also thinking of what a pain it is to find the right bra and how being a woman also means you will live with that misery always. all you're asking for is a correctly fitting garment that doesn't bite, burn, stifle, bruise and scar. no laces, frills. but comfort. and yet, what a pain it is, even to get so little.
well, i feel like i haven't slept in days. now i forget names even as i talk to people and i feel like jumping on the number 5 safa tempo, no matter where i am. home. keep me here.