I don’t remember every one of the thirteen thousand seven hundred and seventy-four or so days that I’ve lived. Maybe ten or fifteen of them have been really, truly memorable, and completely unforgettable. The others have faded into a blur as I have speeded through life. Did the days I don’t remember add anything to the person I am today? If they did then why don’t I remember them?
Will I remember March 28th, 2005 ten years from now? I seriously doubt it. Will I remember posting random comments on a writers’ network on Ryze, or talking to a friend who was angered about an imposition on his home page, or being annoyed with a website designer who failed to understand the design we sought for our blog? Will I remember coming home to a house without Nukku in it? Will I remember feeling strange about not hearing her voice, not seeing her playing around, jumping on me, demanding this or that? Will I remember that her granny took her to Rochester this day and that I was feeling miserable about the prospect of not seeing her for three whole weeks! Or will the memories of this day fade, vanish without a trace as if they never existed? Probably the latter. I wouldn’t shy away from laying a wager that it would be the latter.
It surprises me that I can say that with so much certainty. Because this was a legitimate day, or wasn’t it? The sun rose (well alright, it rose but didn’t make an appearance, it rained all day), it set. I woke up, spent four hours commuting, observed fellow travelers in this journey of life, even interacted with a few. So this day ‘was’. But, this day is not going to ‘be’ a part of my memory banks, in all likelihood. It is going to be erased like so many others have been.
Erased as if it was all a dream. A dream that was all too real while I dreamt, like footprints on the sand, washed away by the surging waves almost as soon as they were created. Life at it’s illusory best, driving home my favorite words – “This too shall pass”.
And once it passes, it’s devoid of meaning, in the lesser and the grander scheme of things.
Maybe some moments have some meaning for sometime. Maybe some history is made, books are written, experiences are documented, memories preserved, but for how long, to what end? Everything is rendered meaningless eventually, reminding one that the only reality is birth and death. The rest is vapor.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Lost Pennies
Countless
copper Lincolns
ground into the street,
trampled over,
valueless, currency
nearly obsolete.
Nearly obsolete,
one hundredth a part,
lost in rounding,
needed only to
complete.
When incomplete
satisfies completely,
fractional presence,
ignored, stray threads
could fall apart -
unravel the
core.
copper Lincolns
ground into the street,
trampled over,
valueless, currency
nearly obsolete.
Nearly obsolete,
one hundredth a part,
lost in rounding,
needed only to
complete.
When incomplete
satisfies completely,
fractional presence,
ignored, stray threads
could fall apart -
unravel the
core.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
March 23rd, 2005
Our front door is the least used door in the house. There are no finger stains around the doorknob and the paint is as fresh as the day the door got attached to its frame. This door never gets used because in this country we rarely have unexpected visitors or friendly neighbors stopping by for casual chit-chat. Even if they did they won’t ever find anyone home. The expected visitors, friends and family always enter through the garage door.
The other reason we forget, at times, that we have a front door is the blanket of snow that carpets the walkway leading away from the door. It covers it all, the flower beds on the sides, our lawn, our driveway. We usually just hop into the garage, press the button that operates the garage door and drive out. Until last week.
It felt like spring. Every last bit of snow had melted away. That feeling of rejuvenation and regeneration was in the air. I looked out my bay windows and saw little yellow tulip buds bursting out of our little flower patch. I yelled out to my near and dear ones, “Hey! Spring is here! C’mon out you guys!” So after four long months we finally unlocked our front door and took a step outside. Looking for buds on the cherry tree and other signs of baby green. We ambled around, drinking in the balminess, feeling so refreshed. The rest of the day was pleasant, spirits high.
Fast forward 24 hours. Misery! Utter misery. It snowed all day. Looking out the window of my 16th floor office, my quasi-home, I felt teary-eyed as I watched the large snow-flakes falling and slowly carpeting the streets of New York. It was a nasty, wet snow. People on the streets had their useless umbrellas out, the high winds had whipped most umbrellas inside-out and the folks attached to the umbrellas appeared as though they were about to pull a “Mary Poppins” act! This after the first day of spring, the vernal equinox! I felt physically assaulted by this most unwelcome return of the white, slippery, icy stuff. I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
My bus left the terminal at 4:00 PM and crept along at the sedate pace of 5 mph. I fitfully dozed and read as the bus crept home, the wheels grinding ice below. Several overturned cars, flashing police lights and jack-knifed tractor-trailers later it finally pulled into the “park & ride” where I usually leave my car. My nightmare wasn’t over yet. I still had to clean the six inch accumulation of snow off my windshield and rear windows and then had to plan the best ice-driving strategy for my drive back home.
I got to work on my car as the ice pellets bruised my face. I tried to brush all the accumulated and partially frozen snow off my car at a pace faster than the rate of the falling snow.
Earlier in the day I had had this lengthy conversation, on a writers’ forum, about “Eve” being in “chains”! It kept replaying in my head as I performed this extremely strenuous task, formerly the exclusive domain of Adam. Where was my Adam? I also thought of the various enchained Eves I knew here in the US, who never learnt how to drive, or how to gas up their cars, or how to fill basic forms, or travel alone, who were completely paralyzed in the absence of their Adams! Perhaps they had the right idea. Who wants to shovel snow or drive alone in an ice storm!
Here I was, an unchained Eve in all my glory! Another voice came floating in from the deeper recesses of my brain, “In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun..”, sure was hard-pressed to find this elusive element today! I was also worried about the remaining drive back home and found Julie Andrews in my brain again, bursting forth with, “I have confidence in sunshine, I have confidence in rain, I have confidence in confidence alone, be-sides which you see I have confidence in me!”
The other reason we forget, at times, that we have a front door is the blanket of snow that carpets the walkway leading away from the door. It covers it all, the flower beds on the sides, our lawn, our driveway. We usually just hop into the garage, press the button that operates the garage door and drive out. Until last week.
It felt like spring. Every last bit of snow had melted away. That feeling of rejuvenation and regeneration was in the air. I looked out my bay windows and saw little yellow tulip buds bursting out of our little flower patch. I yelled out to my near and dear ones, “Hey! Spring is here! C’mon out you guys!” So after four long months we finally unlocked our front door and took a step outside. Looking for buds on the cherry tree and other signs of baby green. We ambled around, drinking in the balminess, feeling so refreshed. The rest of the day was pleasant, spirits high.
Fast forward 24 hours. Misery! Utter misery. It snowed all day. Looking out the window of my 16th floor office, my quasi-home, I felt teary-eyed as I watched the large snow-flakes falling and slowly carpeting the streets of New York. It was a nasty, wet snow. People on the streets had their useless umbrellas out, the high winds had whipped most umbrellas inside-out and the folks attached to the umbrellas appeared as though they were about to pull a “Mary Poppins” act! This after the first day of spring, the vernal equinox! I felt physically assaulted by this most unwelcome return of the white, slippery, icy stuff. I COULDN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!
My bus left the terminal at 4:00 PM and crept along at the sedate pace of 5 mph. I fitfully dozed and read as the bus crept home, the wheels grinding ice below. Several overturned cars, flashing police lights and jack-knifed tractor-trailers later it finally pulled into the “park & ride” where I usually leave my car. My nightmare wasn’t over yet. I still had to clean the six inch accumulation of snow off my windshield and rear windows and then had to plan the best ice-driving strategy for my drive back home.
I got to work on my car as the ice pellets bruised my face. I tried to brush all the accumulated and partially frozen snow off my car at a pace faster than the rate of the falling snow.
Earlier in the day I had had this lengthy conversation, on a writers’ forum, about “Eve” being in “chains”! It kept replaying in my head as I performed this extremely strenuous task, formerly the exclusive domain of Adam. Where was my Adam? I also thought of the various enchained Eves I knew here in the US, who never learnt how to drive, or how to gas up their cars, or how to fill basic forms, or travel alone, who were completely paralyzed in the absence of their Adams! Perhaps they had the right idea. Who wants to shovel snow or drive alone in an ice storm!
Here I was, an unchained Eve in all my glory! Another voice came floating in from the deeper recesses of my brain, “In every job that must be done, there is an element of fun..”, sure was hard-pressed to find this elusive element today! I was also worried about the remaining drive back home and found Julie Andrews in my brain again, bursting forth with, “I have confidence in sunshine, I have confidence in rain, I have confidence in confidence alone, be-sides which you see I have confidence in me!”
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
One must settle in..(rescue attempt by a friend)
Everyone needs to settle in.
That lived-in feeling, a must.
The rust, the dent in the couch,
the scratches on the door,
the wrinkles and,
the chipped mug,
all quite indispensable.
Like water, like melting ice,
seeping through every
cranny, every
nook
from first sight
to last look,
Everyone needs to settle in
to new shoes - old shoes
until they caress, stretch, give,
or perhaps lose
their prime condition, replaced
with comfort
and adjust to constant change,
invention
specks of dirt and layers of nacre,
that leave
nestled
nurtured
naked
settled...
a pearl.
That lived-in feeling, a must.
The rust, the dent in the couch,
the scratches on the door,
the wrinkles and,
the chipped mug,
all quite indispensable.
Like water, like melting ice,
seeping through every
cranny, every
nook
from first sight
to last look,
Everyone needs to settle in
to new shoes - old shoes
until they caress, stretch, give,
or perhaps lose
their prime condition, replaced
with comfort
and adjust to constant change,
invention
specks of dirt and layers of nacre,
that leave
nestled
nurtured
naked
settled...
a pearl.
Another Incredible Larkin Poem
Traumerei
In this dream that dogs me I am part
Of a silent crowd walking under a wall,
Leaving a football match, perhaps, or a pit,
All moving the same way. After a while
A second wall closes on our right,
Pressing us tighter. We are now shut in
Like pigs down a concrete passage. When I lift
My head, I see the walls have killed the sun,
And light is cold. Now a giant whitewashed D
Comes on the second wall, but much too high
For them to recognize: I await the E,
Watch it approach and pass. By now
We have ceased walking and travel
Like water through sewers, steeply, despite
The tread that goes on ringing like an anvil
Under the striding A. I crook
My arm to shield my face, for we must pass
Beneath the huge, decapitated cross,
White on the wall, the T, and I cannot halt
The tread, the beat of it, it is my own heart,
The walls of my room rise, it is still night,
I have woken again before the word was spelt.
- Philip Larkin, 27th September 1946
In this dream that dogs me I am part
Of a silent crowd walking under a wall,
Leaving a football match, perhaps, or a pit,
All moving the same way. After a while
A second wall closes on our right,
Pressing us tighter. We are now shut in
Like pigs down a concrete passage. When I lift
My head, I see the walls have killed the sun,
And light is cold. Now a giant whitewashed D
Comes on the second wall, but much too high
For them to recognize: I await the E,
Watch it approach and pass. By now
We have ceased walking and travel
Like water through sewers, steeply, despite
The tread that goes on ringing like an anvil
Under the striding A. I crook
My arm to shield my face, for we must pass
Beneath the huge, decapitated cross,
White on the wall, the T, and I cannot halt
The tread, the beat of it, it is my own heart,
The walls of my room rise, it is still night,
I have woken again before the word was spelt.
- Philip Larkin, 27th September 1946
Monday, March 21, 2005
I was struggling with..
I was struggling with what I really wanted to say in my "stream of consciousness" poem - "One Must Settle in..". I know it is my worst poetic attempt since I started trying to write some poetry three months ago. But it was an elusive idea that I was trying to grasp, the exact words evaded me.
Today I re-read Tennyson's Ulysses where the feeling I was trying to express is captured very well in these lines:
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
*Sigh* wish I was a poet!
Today I re-read Tennyson's Ulysses where the feeling I was trying to express is captured very well in these lines:
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
*Sigh* wish I was a poet!
Sunday, March 20, 2005
Change of Heart(?)
So I walked on by again, briskly. I had no intentions of stopping or sparing a second glance for the man holding up his cardboard sign where he had painstakingly scribbled the words, “HOMELESS. WILL WORK FOR FOOD!”
Who would ever employ this man? He is willing to work, he says, but does he really think he will land any kind of a job? How did he arrive at this juncture? What led to his reduced circumstances? Why did fate have such misery in store for him? And why am I powerless to do anything to help?
All meaningless, rhetorical questions. They played in my head like a broken record. I knew I would never lend him a hand. The stench bothered me. A part of me felt his misery was contagious. I gave him as wide a berth as possible, as I walked by. I knew the least I could do was search for some spare change and drop it in his Styrofoam cup. But I was not even inclined to zip open my purse and find the change that I knew I had. As I walked by, I sensed his sad and angry eyes boring into my retreating back. I was appalled at my indifference, my lack of compassion. I was ashamed of the cold, apathetic person I had become. But nowhere within was a desire to turn over a new leaf. I had sunk as low as I could. I had reached the lowest point of extreme apathy toward a fellow human being. It was almost as if I had renounced the human fraternity and slithered over into the frigid world of poikilothermic organisms. Could I even call myself human anymore?
That was a turning point of sorts. Not one that called for celebrations, nothing to write home about, but one that signaled the onset of a thaw, nevertheless. Perhaps the vernal equinox had something to do with it. This time I turned around and retraced my steps. I found a handful of change at the bottom of my purse, scooped it up and bent down to drop it in his cup.
I am still appalled at my behavior, my coldness, my indifference and ashamed that some change is all I could spare. But maybe there is a tiny glimmer of hope for me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll give him more money. Buy him some clothes the next day, start buying him sandwiches for lunch, adopt him! Maybe then I’ll feel good about myself!
Who would ever employ this man? He is willing to work, he says, but does he really think he will land any kind of a job? How did he arrive at this juncture? What led to his reduced circumstances? Why did fate have such misery in store for him? And why am I powerless to do anything to help?
All meaningless, rhetorical questions. They played in my head like a broken record. I knew I would never lend him a hand. The stench bothered me. A part of me felt his misery was contagious. I gave him as wide a berth as possible, as I walked by. I knew the least I could do was search for some spare change and drop it in his Styrofoam cup. But I was not even inclined to zip open my purse and find the change that I knew I had. As I walked by, I sensed his sad and angry eyes boring into my retreating back. I was appalled at my indifference, my lack of compassion. I was ashamed of the cold, apathetic person I had become. But nowhere within was a desire to turn over a new leaf. I had sunk as low as I could. I had reached the lowest point of extreme apathy toward a fellow human being. It was almost as if I had renounced the human fraternity and slithered over into the frigid world of poikilothermic organisms. Could I even call myself human anymore?
That was a turning point of sorts. Not one that called for celebrations, nothing to write home about, but one that signaled the onset of a thaw, nevertheless. Perhaps the vernal equinox had something to do with it. This time I turned around and retraced my steps. I found a handful of change at the bottom of my purse, scooped it up and bent down to drop it in his cup.
I am still appalled at my behavior, my coldness, my indifference and ashamed that some change is all I could spare. But maybe there is a tiny glimmer of hope for me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll give him more money. Buy him some clothes the next day, start buying him sandwiches for lunch, adopt him! Maybe then I’ll feel good about myself!
Saturday, March 19, 2005
One must settle in...
One needs to settle in.
At any place, any phase,
any time of ones life.
One needs to settle in.
The lived-in feeling, a must.
The wear and tear, the rust,
the dent in the couch,
the scratches on the door,
the wrinkles on ones face
all important, unavoidable
and quite indispensable.
Keeping things shiny, new
isn’t something one must do.
Live! One must live,
embrace life,
like water, like melting ice.
One must seep through every
nook and cranny,
from the time one’s a tyke,
to the time one’s a granny.
New shoes - so uncomfortable!
Old shoes caress your feet,
they stretch, they give,
perhaps they lose
their prime condition, but
that’s just fine, that’s evolution.
Constant adjustment and change,
invention of a newer, better girl,
specks of dirt and layers of nacre,
is what it takes to make a pearl.
At any place, any phase,
any time of ones life.
One needs to settle in.
The lived-in feeling, a must.
The wear and tear, the rust,
the dent in the couch,
the scratches on the door,
the wrinkles on ones face
all important, unavoidable
and quite indispensable.
Keeping things shiny, new
isn’t something one must do.
Live! One must live,
embrace life,
like water, like melting ice.
One must seep through every
nook and cranny,
from the time one’s a tyke,
to the time one’s a granny.
New shoes - so uncomfortable!
Old shoes caress your feet,
they stretch, they give,
perhaps they lose
their prime condition, but
that’s just fine, that’s evolution.
Constant adjustment and change,
invention of a newer, better girl,
specks of dirt and layers of nacre,
is what it takes to make a pearl.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Earthquake
Arm sticking out of piled debris,
his torso stuck in a safe groove,
Searching eyes of the SFPD,
detected fingers trying to move.
“We got a live one in this heap!”
Paramedics were hastily called.
Shovels, cranes dug deep,
salvaging life, momentarily stalled.
Grueling hours, sweaty brows,
Removed splinters, mortar, steel,
Finally an arm, a leg! “Go, slow!”
“Be careful! He’s gonna heal!”
Two more wounded, one dead found,
before the rescue came to a halt.
Rebuilt, repaired, structurally sound(?),
Perched atop San Andreas Fault.
his torso stuck in a safe groove,
Searching eyes of the SFPD,
detected fingers trying to move.
“We got a live one in this heap!”
Paramedics were hastily called.
Shovels, cranes dug deep,
salvaging life, momentarily stalled.
Grueling hours, sweaty brows,
Removed splinters, mortar, steel,
Finally an arm, a leg! “Go, slow!”
“Be careful! He’s gonna heal!”
Two more wounded, one dead found,
before the rescue came to a halt.
Rebuilt, repaired, structurally sound(?),
Perched atop San Andreas Fault.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Homeless
Across from Bryant Park,
at the corner of 43rd and 6th,
underneath several layers
of filth, a man, past all cares.
Alone in an altered reality,
his possessions in a cart,
he shuffles back and forth,
unheard, shoving his net worth.
Skirting his noisome presence,
deaf to empty threats,
I walk past, at a steady pace,
indifference masks my face.
A mask that carefully conceals,
terror at this Russian roulette:
Fleeting fortunes, sighs of relief,
and cart-borne lifetimes of grief.
at the corner of 43rd and 6th,
underneath several layers
of filth, a man, past all cares.
Alone in an altered reality,
his possessions in a cart,
he shuffles back and forth,
unheard, shoving his net worth.
Skirting his noisome presence,
deaf to empty threats,
I walk past, at a steady pace,
indifference masks my face.
A mask that carefully conceals,
terror at this Russian roulette:
Fleeting fortunes, sighs of relief,
and cart-borne lifetimes of grief.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
I Wish I Better Remembered My Trip to Marrakech...
I always knew I loved to travel. Now I know I love to write. I also know that I really enjoy writing about my travels. But how can the two realizations be combined into one pleasurable continuum? Especially now that I don’t travel as much.
The exotic locales I have visited have only left blurry sepia-toned memories. Not vivid ones, where I could recall every minute detail. All I remember is how I enjoyed being there, how I was really there at a moment or two in time, it was me, or the person I used to be absorbing all that the experience had to offer at that time.
I remember Marrakech. My first business trip abroad, year 1994. I was so excited. I had been preparing for it for days. Asking co-workers how many people would attend this international convention, how to dress, how to prepare myself. They told me I would be surrounded by Europeans and that Europeans loved to dress up, that they didn’t understand the concept of “business casual”. I was told I needed floor-length gowns and not to be surprised if I saw a tiara or two on some gorgeously coiffed heads.
All this advice had me in a nail-biting, frenzied state. I didn’t own any tiaras or floor-length gowns. I couldn’t even afford all this just for a five-day long trip. So I did the best I could. Packed three large suitcases. One of them was just filled with shoes! This was the worst luggage carrying experience of my life! And in the end, as it turned out, all for naught. All others just had a simple carry-on bag that they didn’t even check in! And there was Roberto. Caught him suppress a guffaw every time he saw me struggle with my bags.
The Europeans were worse dressed than the Americans. The Austrian men were seen in things as outrageous as lime green trousers and yellow button-down jackets. The Hungarians and Romanians were uniformly dressed in black, sporting mournful expressions. They weren’t quite used to the first flush of capitalism and the unceremonious exit of Ceaucescu yet. The French and Spanish were all reed thin and simply attired except for a flash or two of color that lent credence to the fact that they are universally acknowledged as “stylish” the world over. They didn’t need an entire trousseau like yours truly! The German women just threw anything on, their armpit hair or legs rarely shaved. There were no tiaras at dinner and I was often more dressed-up than the others. I remember threatening to kill Roberto, my co-worker who had pulled such a prank on me with his tiara story!
As for the city, I really don’t feel I can describe with vivid imagery and poignancy the way it made me feel. It resembled India a lot. Their bazaars were like Chandni Chowk, Delhi. The shop-keepers were big fans of Mithun Chakraborty and the movie “Disco Dancer”. They used to burst into the song “I am a Disco Dancer…”, soon as they found out I was from India. They tried to sell me a “magic” carpet. Their sales pitches seriously insisting that their wares really were enchanted. My co-workers and I were enjoying their selling tactics and were humoring them. I remember one of them asking me to sit down on one of the rugs and that they would prove to me that it flew. So I sat on it. Two of them came forward, lifted either end of the carpet and started swinging me to and fro as if I was in a hammock! Then they looked at me with those beautiful Moroccan “we-told-you-so” eyes!
The other memorable Moroccan memory was that of seriously upset stomachs. Everyone had an episode of the runs. I have heard people complain about “Delhi Bellies” but this was also very “Moroccan Merde”!
All said and done, I would love to go back. This time, really absorb all the sights and sounds and write about the feelings the city inspired in me. With enough Imodium AD, I think it would be quite a memorable trip!
The exotic locales I have visited have only left blurry sepia-toned memories. Not vivid ones, where I could recall every minute detail. All I remember is how I enjoyed being there, how I was really there at a moment or two in time, it was me, or the person I used to be absorbing all that the experience had to offer at that time.
I remember Marrakech. My first business trip abroad, year 1994. I was so excited. I had been preparing for it for days. Asking co-workers how many people would attend this international convention, how to dress, how to prepare myself. They told me I would be surrounded by Europeans and that Europeans loved to dress up, that they didn’t understand the concept of “business casual”. I was told I needed floor-length gowns and not to be surprised if I saw a tiara or two on some gorgeously coiffed heads.
All this advice had me in a nail-biting, frenzied state. I didn’t own any tiaras or floor-length gowns. I couldn’t even afford all this just for a five-day long trip. So I did the best I could. Packed three large suitcases. One of them was just filled with shoes! This was the worst luggage carrying experience of my life! And in the end, as it turned out, all for naught. All others just had a simple carry-on bag that they didn’t even check in! And there was Roberto. Caught him suppress a guffaw every time he saw me struggle with my bags.
The Europeans were worse dressed than the Americans. The Austrian men were seen in things as outrageous as lime green trousers and yellow button-down jackets. The Hungarians and Romanians were uniformly dressed in black, sporting mournful expressions. They weren’t quite used to the first flush of capitalism and the unceremonious exit of Ceaucescu yet. The French and Spanish were all reed thin and simply attired except for a flash or two of color that lent credence to the fact that they are universally acknowledged as “stylish” the world over. They didn’t need an entire trousseau like yours truly! The German women just threw anything on, their armpit hair or legs rarely shaved. There were no tiaras at dinner and I was often more dressed-up than the others. I remember threatening to kill Roberto, my co-worker who had pulled such a prank on me with his tiara story!
As for the city, I really don’t feel I can describe with vivid imagery and poignancy the way it made me feel. It resembled India a lot. Their bazaars were like Chandni Chowk, Delhi. The shop-keepers were big fans of Mithun Chakraborty and the movie “Disco Dancer”. They used to burst into the song “I am a Disco Dancer…”, soon as they found out I was from India. They tried to sell me a “magic” carpet. Their sales pitches seriously insisting that their wares really were enchanted. My co-workers and I were enjoying their selling tactics and were humoring them. I remember one of them asking me to sit down on one of the rugs and that they would prove to me that it flew. So I sat on it. Two of them came forward, lifted either end of the carpet and started swinging me to and fro as if I was in a hammock! Then they looked at me with those beautiful Moroccan “we-told-you-so” eyes!
The other memorable Moroccan memory was that of seriously upset stomachs. Everyone had an episode of the runs. I have heard people complain about “Delhi Bellies” but this was also very “Moroccan Merde”!
All said and done, I would love to go back. This time, really absorb all the sights and sounds and write about the feelings the city inspired in me. With enough Imodium AD, I think it would be quite a memorable trip!
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Flamenco Dreams
Dreams of swaying and swirling
in frills and flowing, flashing reds,
of pirouettes, and twirling
to the beats of clicking castanets.
Of exotic dances, hypnotic trances,
of gyrating, rhythmic beats,
drenching the soul in romance,
in surging waves of liquid heat.
Alas, these sparkling, velvet dreams,
vanish in the morning glare,
of unrelenting sunlit streams,
and rude reminders of diurnal cares.
in frills and flowing, flashing reds,
of pirouettes, and twirling
to the beats of clicking castanets.
Of exotic dances, hypnotic trances,
of gyrating, rhythmic beats,
drenching the soul in romance,
in surging waves of liquid heat.
Alas, these sparkling, velvet dreams,
vanish in the morning glare,
of unrelenting sunlit streams,
and rude reminders of diurnal cares.
Sunday, March 6, 2005
Fourth Grade
“Ok, repeat after me – Mayur-sa-rini”, said Sona Singh. My own personal trainer, a classmate who Mrs Husain had appointed my keeper. Mrs Husain had no faith in my ability to learn English or Math or anything! Little did she know that I could read and write circles around Sona Singh! But I was a timorous soul. I gritted my teeth and repeated after Sona Singh –Mayur-sa-rini – as I died a little inside.
Fourth grade! The most nightmarish time of my life! I was seven then. Thirty years have gone by and the nightmare is as vivid as if I was only eight. I was new to Delhi. The hyper-activity, the cliques, the cruelty that my Delhi classmates inflicted on my seven year old person took me by such stunned surprise and shock that I don’t think I ever fully recovered. Perhaps it would have helped if I was nine years old like the others in my class, but I wasn’t. I found myself asking any sympathetic looking classmates questions like, “How do we draw a number line? How do we draw a Venn diagram?” They never helped me, they always laughed at me instead and cracked cruel jokes, mimicking my, “How do we..” any time they saw me approach.
I never raised my hand in class, never spoke, didn’t understand half the things that were being taught in Math and my personality underwent a sea change within two weeks of becoming a fourth grader at Frank Anthony Public School. I had no friends, I used to eat my lunch alone. I never turned in any homework or exam papers for fear of incurring Mrs Husain’s wrath in class and my parents disappointed anger at home. Math was my only problem but Mrs Husain thought I was below average in everything. The woman never once had a kind word for me. It was almost as if she wanted to further demoralize a kid who already was as low as she could possibly be.
I remember the time when I came into class and found my chair missing. It didn’t occur to me to simply drag another chair and sit down, as any other kid would have done, or to approach the dragon lady and tell her my problem. I was too beaten down to do anything and, resignedly, just sat on my tin attaché case that held my books, for at least fifteen days! My brother was my savior. He was in kindergarten then, in the same school. His classes used to be over at noon, after which he used to come and sit with me until my last period was over. We then used to go home together in the box rickshaw. He finally told my Mom, “Mummy! Didi doesn’t have a chair in class! She sits on her book box!” My Mom turned around from whatever she was doing and said, “WHAT?” I had never seen her more furious! She went to see Mrs Husain the next day and gave her a really angry piece of her mind, “How could you? Don’t you keep track of your students? Didn’t you notice she hasn’t had a chair for fifteen days? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? I never would have known about this if my son hadn’t told me!” I was proud of my Mom then but also very scared because Mrs Husain was not going to let me forget this. She told my Mom, “She should have spoken up, she never said a word to me Mrs Mishra!” Then she bent down and tried to ask me, with feigned concern, “Why didn’t you say something child?” I just stared at her, scanning her frightening face as scared kids tend to do.
And sure enough she started to take it out on me. She started finding fault with everything. Ignoring me on the rare occasions that I did raise my hands to answer something. She never once gave me a pat on my back for my superb reading or spelling or writing skills. Instead she appointed Sona Singh and the real mean Tejinder Kaur as my guardians! She asked them to monitor all my homework and classwork in all subjects. She shamed me like no other seven year old has ever been shamed before. She made me the laughing stock of the class! She kept calling me to the blackboard during Math class, knowing full well I was completely lost. Never once did she try to help me or explain things to me.
I dreaded getting up in the morning to go to school. I hated the sight of the green blackboard, the smell of the corridors, the cigarette smell in the classroom from Mrs Husain’s chain smoking and my two “guardians” trying to teach me how to be a model student. I didn’t even have anyone to reach out to for complaints against bullies or kids who snatched my water bottle from me or tormented me in other ways. I used to hate eating my lunch alone, being so utterly friendless! And then there was Sarva Vellamuri who I considered a good friend but she ditched me mid-recess once, saying she didn’t want to spend it with me anymore. I remember sitting down on the bench, tear-filled eyes ready to overflow. But I didn’t want to be seen crying.
The nightmare was finally over with the final exams, which weren’t uneventful. My parents had bought me what we called a “pen-pencil” with which I intended to write my exams. But careless as I was, I dropped it, lost it during assembly. I had nothing with which to write. I went around begging for a pencil until Sarika Sharma, a real kind soul, gave me a little stump of a pencil. I wrote out all the answers and went home.
At home my Mom did a routine check of my things and asked me where my pen-pencil was. I told her I had lost it. She then asked me how I took the exams. I told her I borrowed a pencil. She knew I was too timid to ask anyone for anything and my parents didn’t believe I had taken the final exam for all of the fourteen days before the results came out. They fully expected me to fail and repeat fourth grade. Then the report cards came and I had managed to clear everything quite comfortably! The nightmare was finally over!
PS: I have met Sarva (on the net) and we've done 30 years of catching up via emails. What a way to find someone! By mentioning them in a blog account! She still seems like the good, stron-willed person I always thought she was. And the sad incident of my pitiful childhood can finally recede from the recesses of my brain.
Fourth grade! The most nightmarish time of my life! I was seven then. Thirty years have gone by and the nightmare is as vivid as if I was only eight. I was new to Delhi. The hyper-activity, the cliques, the cruelty that my Delhi classmates inflicted on my seven year old person took me by such stunned surprise and shock that I don’t think I ever fully recovered. Perhaps it would have helped if I was nine years old like the others in my class, but I wasn’t. I found myself asking any sympathetic looking classmates questions like, “How do we draw a number line? How do we draw a Venn diagram?” They never helped me, they always laughed at me instead and cracked cruel jokes, mimicking my, “How do we..” any time they saw me approach.
I never raised my hand in class, never spoke, didn’t understand half the things that were being taught in Math and my personality underwent a sea change within two weeks of becoming a fourth grader at Frank Anthony Public School. I had no friends, I used to eat my lunch alone. I never turned in any homework or exam papers for fear of incurring Mrs Husain’s wrath in class and my parents disappointed anger at home. Math was my only problem but Mrs Husain thought I was below average in everything. The woman never once had a kind word for me. It was almost as if she wanted to further demoralize a kid who already was as low as she could possibly be.
I remember the time when I came into class and found my chair missing. It didn’t occur to me to simply drag another chair and sit down, as any other kid would have done, or to approach the dragon lady and tell her my problem. I was too beaten down to do anything and, resignedly, just sat on my tin attaché case that held my books, for at least fifteen days! My brother was my savior. He was in kindergarten then, in the same school. His classes used to be over at noon, after which he used to come and sit with me until my last period was over. We then used to go home together in the box rickshaw. He finally told my Mom, “Mummy! Didi doesn’t have a chair in class! She sits on her book box!” My Mom turned around from whatever she was doing and said, “WHAT?” I had never seen her more furious! She went to see Mrs Husain the next day and gave her a really angry piece of her mind, “How could you? Don’t you keep track of your students? Didn’t you notice she hasn’t had a chair for fifteen days? WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?? I never would have known about this if my son hadn’t told me!” I was proud of my Mom then but also very scared because Mrs Husain was not going to let me forget this. She told my Mom, “She should have spoken up, she never said a word to me Mrs Mishra!” Then she bent down and tried to ask me, with feigned concern, “Why didn’t you say something child?” I just stared at her, scanning her frightening face as scared kids tend to do.
And sure enough she started to take it out on me. She started finding fault with everything. Ignoring me on the rare occasions that I did raise my hands to answer something. She never once gave me a pat on my back for my superb reading or spelling or writing skills. Instead she appointed Sona Singh and the real mean Tejinder Kaur as my guardians! She asked them to monitor all my homework and classwork in all subjects. She shamed me like no other seven year old has ever been shamed before. She made me the laughing stock of the class! She kept calling me to the blackboard during Math class, knowing full well I was completely lost. Never once did she try to help me or explain things to me.
I dreaded getting up in the morning to go to school. I hated the sight of the green blackboard, the smell of the corridors, the cigarette smell in the classroom from Mrs Husain’s chain smoking and my two “guardians” trying to teach me how to be a model student. I didn’t even have anyone to reach out to for complaints against bullies or kids who snatched my water bottle from me or tormented me in other ways. I used to hate eating my lunch alone, being so utterly friendless! And then there was Sarva Vellamuri who I considered a good friend but she ditched me mid-recess once, saying she didn’t want to spend it with me anymore. I remember sitting down on the bench, tear-filled eyes ready to overflow. But I didn’t want to be seen crying.
The nightmare was finally over with the final exams, which weren’t uneventful. My parents had bought me what we called a “pen-pencil” with which I intended to write my exams. But careless as I was, I dropped it, lost it during assembly. I had nothing with which to write. I went around begging for a pencil until Sarika Sharma, a real kind soul, gave me a little stump of a pencil. I wrote out all the answers and went home.
At home my Mom did a routine check of my things and asked me where my pen-pencil was. I told her I had lost it. She then asked me how I took the exams. I told her I borrowed a pencil. She knew I was too timid to ask anyone for anything and my parents didn’t believe I had taken the final exam for all of the fourteen days before the results came out. They fully expected me to fail and repeat fourth grade. Then the report cards came and I had managed to clear everything quite comfortably! The nightmare was finally over!
PS: I have met Sarva (on the net) and we've done 30 years of catching up via emails. What a way to find someone! By mentioning them in a blog account! She still seems like the good, stron-willed person I always thought she was. And the sad incident of my pitiful childhood can finally recede from the recesses of my brain.
Child's Pose
At the risk of inviting the ire of Yoga devotees and proponents, I venture forth and say I have "dabbled" in Yoga. I'll probably be told there is no such thing as "dabbling" in Yoga, you either are a Yogini or you aren't. There is no middle ground. In my case I offer up the poor excuse of never having enough time to pursue it with intensity. I sign up for employer initiated lunchtime Yoga sessions and stop being a practitioner whenever I change jobs.
Having said that, I will admit that Yoga is something I would definitely like to pursue more whole-heartedly. I still crave the serene after-effects of it; experienced after every hour long session. It used to make me feel so calm and productive, equilibrium restored. It was good for me. Good for my sanity.
I haven't practiced any Yoga for about six months now. I can't get myself to learn the asanas through a video tape. I envy people who can do that. I can either watch the screen or do my Yoga - can't do both things at the same time. I need an instructor to help me, to correct my poses, to explain the benefits of each action to me. It used to be great to hear what part of the body, what internal organ any particular asana was targeting. But there was the one asana the benefits of which no one has ever been able to explain to me - The Child's Pose. So you settle down on the floor, knees folded in, head on the ground, arms stretched out forward or by your sides, in the passive version. I loved doing it because it always followed a rather strenuous set of asanas and it didn't require my doing anything at all. But I didn't fully comprehend its relevance. If it was supposed to be restful why that particular position, there were so many other ways of resting.
So today, when I looked around this place I call home, taking in A's crumpled up socks in one corner, little A's tricycle parked in the middle of the living room, her discarded outfits in one corner, crumpled up bits of water-soaked paper on the coffee table(this three year old loves soaking things in water), her building blocks and other things that make me go, "Ouch!" whenever I am picking my way through this mess, my mind went blank. It was akin to a catatonic state. It was task avoidance in the extreme. I was in the middle of extreme chaos. I needed to deal with it. It was a Sunday. I needed to deal with it because Sunday was slip-sliding into Monday and my home is just a place where I rest my head during the week. I can only call it home during the weekends and the messes that need to be cleaned up during the weekend take away the comfort that the word "home" is supposed to conjure up in ones mind.
So I stood there, motionless. Sensory perceptions intact. My optic nerves were transmitting images of entropy to my brain but the synaptic connection that gets the motor nerves to act on this impulse was missing. I was rooted on the spot. The only thing I wanted to instinctively do was retreat into "The Child's Pose". I slowly settled down on the floor, assumed the position and felt my brain shutting down. My mind was blank, I didn't want to think of anything. No deliberations, no weighty issues to ponder, just a cocooned feeling of extreme comfort.
I have no idea how long I stayed in that position but it restored me in some ways. When I was up on my feet again I reached for a large garbage bag and started picking up and dumping all offending items in the bag. I put away all the discarded clothes, swept up all the scattered toys and put them in a bin, reached for the vacuum and cleaned my "beyond redemption" light-colored carpet to the best of my abilities, worked through all the discarded dishes in the sink and finally felt a little bit better about myself. Restoring an element of sanity to my life felt good.
So now I think I understand what this particular asana is all about - a physical representation of discarding all your troubles, wiping the slate clean, regressing back to a time when one had nothing to think about, retreating back into the womb, then emerging renewed.
This story is true except for the fact that I didn't do all these things after emerging from the pose. Instead I grabbed my laptop, wrote down the experience and listed all the things I should be doing - the task avoidance lingered. But in my case, writing things down on paper does always help. Once I list the things that need to be done I can work through my checklist and actually get them done. So I am going to sign-off now. Chores await!
Having said that, I will admit that Yoga is something I would definitely like to pursue more whole-heartedly. I still crave the serene after-effects of it; experienced after every hour long session. It used to make me feel so calm and productive, equilibrium restored. It was good for me. Good for my sanity.
I haven't practiced any Yoga for about six months now. I can't get myself to learn the asanas through a video tape. I envy people who can do that. I can either watch the screen or do my Yoga - can't do both things at the same time. I need an instructor to help me, to correct my poses, to explain the benefits of each action to me. It used to be great to hear what part of the body, what internal organ any particular asana was targeting. But there was the one asana the benefits of which no one has ever been able to explain to me - The Child's Pose. So you settle down on the floor, knees folded in, head on the ground, arms stretched out forward or by your sides, in the passive version. I loved doing it because it always followed a rather strenuous set of asanas and it didn't require my doing anything at all. But I didn't fully comprehend its relevance. If it was supposed to be restful why that particular position, there were so many other ways of resting.
So today, when I looked around this place I call home, taking in A's crumpled up socks in one corner, little A's tricycle parked in the middle of the living room, her discarded outfits in one corner, crumpled up bits of water-soaked paper on the coffee table(this three year old loves soaking things in water), her building blocks and other things that make me go, "Ouch!" whenever I am picking my way through this mess, my mind went blank. It was akin to a catatonic state. It was task avoidance in the extreme. I was in the middle of extreme chaos. I needed to deal with it. It was a Sunday. I needed to deal with it because Sunday was slip-sliding into Monday and my home is just a place where I rest my head during the week. I can only call it home during the weekends and the messes that need to be cleaned up during the weekend take away the comfort that the word "home" is supposed to conjure up in ones mind.
So I stood there, motionless. Sensory perceptions intact. My optic nerves were transmitting images of entropy to my brain but the synaptic connection that gets the motor nerves to act on this impulse was missing. I was rooted on the spot. The only thing I wanted to instinctively do was retreat into "The Child's Pose". I slowly settled down on the floor, assumed the position and felt my brain shutting down. My mind was blank, I didn't want to think of anything. No deliberations, no weighty issues to ponder, just a cocooned feeling of extreme comfort.
I have no idea how long I stayed in that position but it restored me in some ways. When I was up on my feet again I reached for a large garbage bag and started picking up and dumping all offending items in the bag. I put away all the discarded clothes, swept up all the scattered toys and put them in a bin, reached for the vacuum and cleaned my "beyond redemption" light-colored carpet to the best of my abilities, worked through all the discarded dishes in the sink and finally felt a little bit better about myself. Restoring an element of sanity to my life felt good.
So now I think I understand what this particular asana is all about - a physical representation of discarding all your troubles, wiping the slate clean, regressing back to a time when one had nothing to think about, retreating back into the womb, then emerging renewed.
This story is true except for the fact that I didn't do all these things after emerging from the pose. Instead I grabbed my laptop, wrote down the experience and listed all the things I should be doing - the task avoidance lingered. But in my case, writing things down on paper does always help. Once I list the things that need to be done I can work through my checklist and actually get them done. So I am going to sign-off now. Chores await!
Saturday, March 5, 2005
Threads of Life
She broke into a cold sweat every time Nurse Ektapoulos entered the room.
Nancy Trent had been in Ward 8 of Sunset for almost three months. Her son, Nick, had dropped her off two months ago, at her insistence. Nick couldn’t attend to her needs any longer. She was gradually losing control of her bladder and bowels and couldn’t bear the indignity of dependence on her son. He led a hectic life and she had increasingly felt she was dragging him down. Her mind was still alert and vibrant and she was capable of wheel chair bound mobility; except there was no place to go. She wanted to be the author of her own end-of-life story. She craved human companionship but had stopped expecting interaction with any family members other than the provision of three meals and sanitary care.
Nancy had finally asked Nick to move her to a hospice. She knew she had less than a year left. The cancer was spreading fast. She wanted to spend her last several months in a ward full of people who were in a similar situation. She had always felt that the best psycho-social counseling would come from like-minded souls, from fellow travelers along the same last road. She wanted to talk to others, see how they felt, how they were preparing themselves for the final moment.
Nick had raised some generic, insincere objections and had finally agreed to bring her to the Sunset Hospice Care facility.
In three short months Nancy had become the darling of Ward 8. She had a very positive attitude and her brilliant conversational skills had all her ward mates in thrall. She kept their spirits up, displaying higher energy levels than the others in the ward. She was even able to wheel herself around and assist anyone who needed her help.
Yet there was something about Nurse Ektapoulos that bothered her.
Nursee, as they called her, was always cheerful, stopped by each bed every morning, checking vital signs and making entries on each chart. She always had kind words to say to everyone, asking about their sons, daughters, grand kids and other family members. She even remembered their birthdays. But every time Nursee was near Nancy’s bed, Nancy’s nerves were on alert and she felt her adrenal glands kicking in, ready with the flight or fight response, if only her limbs permitted.
Nancy had always been a light sleeper and her cancer ravaged body had found it increasingly difficult to snatch more than two hours of sleep each night. Morphine had always made her nauseous and she found the tolerance of pain infinitely preferable to the indignity of vomiting.
It was during one of these sleepless moments that she had observed Nursee creep into Ward 8 at night, long after her scheduled rounds were complete, and inject her good friend Miriam with a syringeful of something. She then crept out as silently as she had entered. Miriam never woke up the next morning.Miriam’s passing was sudden and shocking. They had talked and Miriam had said that she expected to live at least another six months. She had felt comfortable and her pain had been well-managed. There hadn’t been any signs of progressively accelerating deterioration. But this was a hospice after all and the possibility of further investigation in this matter was remote.
Nancy had relegated her insomniac observations to the deeper recesses of her mind when, after three weeks, she observed Nursee enter Ward 8 once again. This time she walked over to her buddy Nathan’s bed. Nathan didn’t wake up the next morning. Nathan had been terminally ill with bladder cancer but he had also been in a stable state, comfortable and cheerful on most days. The two incidents were too similar to be coincidental and Nancy was now extremely wary of Nursee.
Nancy was one of the few patients who had sufficient mobility on her wheelchair and used to routinely leave the ward to visit other patients in other wards. This morning she decided to set off on her morning excursions during the time when she knew Nursee would be busy with her rounds. She wheeled herself down the lime green corridors, to Nursee’s office at the end of the hallway. The door was open and she entered.She started looking around and saw a very organized office. Nothing was out of place, it was quiet as a mausoleum. There were glass cabinets full of all kinds of vials. And then she glanced up at the wall art and the statuettes resting on her desktop and her cabinets. They were various forms of the three life- thread weaving daughters of Zeus and Themis – Clothos (the weaver), Lachesis (the measurer) and Atropos (the snipper). Her eyes then alighted upon the name plate on the desk - A. Ektapoulos, R.N.
She sifted through some correspondence on the desk. She spotted an envelope with a return address of L. Ektapoulos addressed to A. Ektapoulos. She was inquisitive enough to peek inside the long manila envelope. Therein lay a piece of knotted thread – with about 65 knots in it. The paper inside had a single name on it – Nancy Trent. It was Nancy’s 65th birthday today. She glanced at the knotted thread and then the piece of paper and as she lifted her eyes to the doorway she saw the backlit form of a beaming Nursee, Ms Atropos Ektapoulos, framed in the doorway, a lifted syringe in her hand.
Nancy Trent had been in Ward 8 of Sunset for almost three months. Her son, Nick, had dropped her off two months ago, at her insistence. Nick couldn’t attend to her needs any longer. She was gradually losing control of her bladder and bowels and couldn’t bear the indignity of dependence on her son. He led a hectic life and she had increasingly felt she was dragging him down. Her mind was still alert and vibrant and she was capable of wheel chair bound mobility; except there was no place to go. She wanted to be the author of her own end-of-life story. She craved human companionship but had stopped expecting interaction with any family members other than the provision of three meals and sanitary care.
Nancy had finally asked Nick to move her to a hospice. She knew she had less than a year left. The cancer was spreading fast. She wanted to spend her last several months in a ward full of people who were in a similar situation. She had always felt that the best psycho-social counseling would come from like-minded souls, from fellow travelers along the same last road. She wanted to talk to others, see how they felt, how they were preparing themselves for the final moment.
Nick had raised some generic, insincere objections and had finally agreed to bring her to the Sunset Hospice Care facility.
In three short months Nancy had become the darling of Ward 8. She had a very positive attitude and her brilliant conversational skills had all her ward mates in thrall. She kept their spirits up, displaying higher energy levels than the others in the ward. She was even able to wheel herself around and assist anyone who needed her help.
Yet there was something about Nurse Ektapoulos that bothered her.
Nursee, as they called her, was always cheerful, stopped by each bed every morning, checking vital signs and making entries on each chart. She always had kind words to say to everyone, asking about their sons, daughters, grand kids and other family members. She even remembered their birthdays. But every time Nursee was near Nancy’s bed, Nancy’s nerves were on alert and she felt her adrenal glands kicking in, ready with the flight or fight response, if only her limbs permitted.
Nancy had always been a light sleeper and her cancer ravaged body had found it increasingly difficult to snatch more than two hours of sleep each night. Morphine had always made her nauseous and she found the tolerance of pain infinitely preferable to the indignity of vomiting.
It was during one of these sleepless moments that she had observed Nursee creep into Ward 8 at night, long after her scheduled rounds were complete, and inject her good friend Miriam with a syringeful of something. She then crept out as silently as she had entered. Miriam never woke up the next morning.Miriam’s passing was sudden and shocking. They had talked and Miriam had said that she expected to live at least another six months. She had felt comfortable and her pain had been well-managed. There hadn’t been any signs of progressively accelerating deterioration. But this was a hospice after all and the possibility of further investigation in this matter was remote.
Nancy had relegated her insomniac observations to the deeper recesses of her mind when, after three weeks, she observed Nursee enter Ward 8 once again. This time she walked over to her buddy Nathan’s bed. Nathan didn’t wake up the next morning. Nathan had been terminally ill with bladder cancer but he had also been in a stable state, comfortable and cheerful on most days. The two incidents were too similar to be coincidental and Nancy was now extremely wary of Nursee.
Nancy was one of the few patients who had sufficient mobility on her wheelchair and used to routinely leave the ward to visit other patients in other wards. This morning she decided to set off on her morning excursions during the time when she knew Nursee would be busy with her rounds. She wheeled herself down the lime green corridors, to Nursee’s office at the end of the hallway. The door was open and she entered.She started looking around and saw a very organized office. Nothing was out of place, it was quiet as a mausoleum. There were glass cabinets full of all kinds of vials. And then she glanced up at the wall art and the statuettes resting on her desktop and her cabinets. They were various forms of the three life- thread weaving daughters of Zeus and Themis – Clothos (the weaver), Lachesis (the measurer) and Atropos (the snipper). Her eyes then alighted upon the name plate on the desk - A. Ektapoulos, R.N.
She sifted through some correspondence on the desk. She spotted an envelope with a return address of L. Ektapoulos addressed to A. Ektapoulos. She was inquisitive enough to peek inside the long manila envelope. Therein lay a piece of knotted thread – with about 65 knots in it. The paper inside had a single name on it – Nancy Trent. It was Nancy’s 65th birthday today. She glanced at the knotted thread and then the piece of paper and as she lifted her eyes to the doorway she saw the backlit form of a beaming Nursee, Ms Atropos Ektapoulos, framed in the doorway, a lifted syringe in her hand.
Tuesday, March 1, 2005
Martha Stewart Returns
Five months in prison,
Not a hair out of place,
Radiant, newly lissome,
Glowing smile on her face.
Twenty lost pounds,
Fox stole around her neck,
Waving at the press hounds,
Calling all hands on deck.
Not a hair out of place,
Radiant, newly lissome,
Glowing smile on her face.
Twenty lost pounds,
Fox stole around her neck,
Waving at the press hounds,
Calling all hands on deck.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)