Sunday, December 13, 2009

weekend tramplings

Patches of darkness spill
onto the gravel
lit by a million fireflies; guiding
flames and memories
songs
and songs of a song

of
the evening
spent walking our minutes by the leash
letting them go, out but not far
we walk them in sync and when you stop
i know its time
to retrace those steps and go home
to arms we belong, times we contain and possessions we become.

walk with me the time
ours
alone
this time, once
walk it slow.

Thursday, December 10, 2009


He's white and blue. And he holds a big bottle of champagne to celebrate. News, he says. Life, indeed. He's white and red sometimes. Thin stripes that make a pink. They fall, tightly around his greased tummy and grizzly mane. He's sometimes, yellow. Sometimes, pure evil red. Odious, if I may. But he can punctuate. And say all the wrong things at the wrong time. And the right ones, when times have flown by. You can see him from a distance, a hazy blob of associations and tangents, carrying baggage. Mine.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

corner tales and wooden smells


Imagine an existence in hatched lines and dotted paths, dimensions you've studied and known, memorised in silence and darkness. Counted stairs to the landing, preempted the curve on the balustrade, breathed in the volumes and smells of rooms, familiar though forgotten. The winding plan, the multiple splits in level and configuration, stories in brick, cement and some marble. Doors that lead to another, then another, then another. The house. The non existent living room. The rite of entrance and the grandparents, waiting for a bell. Sometimes, to not ring.
I come home after gaps that wear out my memory and those it contains. I come home to changes I've foreseen yet not accepted. I come home to changed views, viewpoints and vistas. To newer linen, floorboards, kitchen mats, chimneys, gas hobs, tables, flowers in the vase (from my brother, to make up for my father's temporary absence)
The lilies, as always, are fresh. And white. They've become my sense of permanence, of home and comfort corners. Move the vase, and I cry a river. Take the flowers away, and I cry some more. The lines fall away slower than the walls did. Orientations have changed. I changed them, on a grey screen. And my virtual models come to haunt me and my memories that they threaten. The story is a simple one. And the conclusions apparent. The conflict lies in my absence and the stoic markings in my mind. Some, hatched. Some, double-lined.

The story writes itself. And I watch, clinging onto the songs I heard on the AIWA deck in the living room, when it existed, when we played our cricket matches along the lengths of the diwans that lined the room. When the stories were shorter in my head, a ball of wool, ready to be flung down a slope.It wound out, faster than I would imagine tugging it back. And the colours changed along the way. It dropped, skipped, chugged and ran. The house whispered it's story. Sometimes now, I hear it shout. And it annoys me. It was supposed to be my story too. And I didn't want it spoken out on electroacoustic transducers. No part of that story. Not mine. Not ours.

Let's sit in our circle of ten tonight, mumma. Let's play the game we knew and mastered. Let's play a round of whispers that once comforted her crying. The one that made me draw. The one that made them giggle. It's been a while in the story since we did.