a quickie

as always, I write only
in desperate times.

when my literature teacher asks us
with a smirk - do you miss me
when I am not here? the right
answer (we learn partly) is that
we miss her even when she is
here. we miss each other all the time.

not in a purple or hazy or sentimental way,
although that too. she means it about words
and angles and reflections, how we look
to each other like flowers aching for sun,
but find nothing. no solace, no meaning.

another literature teacher from the past
was kinder. but she too told me, face
lined with compassion - no two people
are ever having the same conversation.
so i wonder - do we all always
just bounce off each other
like badly angled lighting
on a strange stage?

oh, words, words, words.
we hit and we miss, and hit again.
I give up trying to make sense
of conversations, and let my essay
breathe like a fresh puddle in rain,
all muddied and muddy. we are not
reaching anywhere today. nor tomorrow.

Sentences

After J. Estanislao Lopez

“All you can offer anyone suffering in the world is a sentence,
which is more often than not not enough” — of course, of course
this is true, but still it wrenches my gut every time, a rusted punch
right where it hurts. My mind is a strange ocean, and the more I learn
the deeper I swim. Language is the deep blue water I travel in:
there is no way of escaping it. This much I have learnt. My debts
to the world shall be paid in an economy of words, with sentences
I will build like monuments. It is all I have to my name, to my self.
The words create whole landscapes, and it is where I always return
to search for that most elusive dream in a human life: meaning.
The words are all I have to understand my small body and this
vast world, they are all I can offer to the small gods in prayer.
I want the words I write to be the shining lights of a harbour
for a stranger’s faltering boat, I want the words to carry me, to
save a drowning lover. The sentences I carve should be some kind
of solace, should be lamps of comfort for somebody, somewhere.
I have nothing else to give of myself but these strings of words.
O poet, do not tell me about my predestined failure in your words
sharpened like swords, do not reveal my helplessness to me
in the very language of my hope.

summer and a boy

the strange sound and light show of summer returning to the world: the sudden heat of sun on my arms, or a breeze that doesn't sting, or the rustling of new leaves, or the aching blue of the sky.

I think I am less afraid to write even if nobody is listening.

part of it has to do with smiling at strangers, and part of it has to do with the way I want to hold his hand when he trembles in his sleep. I am finding more and more poetry hidden in the lining of his skin, and something about his grace overwhelms me, like when he is driving so effortlessly, absentmindedly biting his lip, a faraway look in his ocean eyes.

he is listening even when he is not listening, and the beauty of it all makes me want to rejoice.

summer is coming, and winter did not choke me. I am running at the world with open arms, trying to love it harder and harder, trying to rediscover childish joy in whatever ways I can. the pebbles, the sunsets, the sea. it is all glorious.

a note after everything

the days are long and strange, and writing is strange because it sounds the same even though everything is different, the words are stale but the world is entirely new. it is a quieter world. joy is very quiet, like a mouse hiding somewhere in the house, its small and furry breath held. i think it is coming back though; i'd like to think i can hear its gentle scurryings in the walls sometimes.

i wrote a story in the second person so i could hold down my strange experience in my hands like a fluttering bird and pass it on to somebody else, so somebody else could keep the memory in their throats instead of me. although it does not bother me anymore, the memory has a silent existence in my life. i am trying to write fiction, and it is both new and very, very old: it feels as though i have always been writing fiction. as though the voice in my head is familiar with it, with creating from the images around me. does this mean i am a liar, a dreamer, or just confused?

theory threatens to bring down the house, yet U. and i manage somehow to keep this space of intimacy between us like a secret ball full of light, we are gentle with it and kind to it but we do not believe anymore that it will shatter like glass. perhaps it is thin and transparent, but it is not brittle. we whisper to each other in the mornings, and we are sad we cannot wake up next to each others shining backs and arms. yet the words make it okay, they travel through and sometimes we can meet, or even hear the silly lilt of each others voices on the phone, and it is enough. for some time. love is greedy, but it is so wise. i don't know if theory agrees; it scares me that theory cares only about breaking us but not about putting us back together. life must be, can only be, about putting us back together, about the vast project of tracing gold along our fractures and fissures and finding some way to stay whole despite all the breaking.

everything seems different, and some moments i find it hard to recognise myself, but also i have stopped trying. things are hurting less, but for some reason, right now, i am afraid of joy and joy is afraid of me (it skitters into holes in the ground, it falters at my footstep). i want to feel joy like a hurricane in the house rather than a secret presence. i do not want to be a ghost.

i think a lot, but i want also to privilege the mind of my body, i want to know what my ribs say to me when i am asleep. i want to feel the vast giddiness in my chest when i write poetry in the night, or read something glorious, or see a sunset of pink blossoms, or find a leaf the colour of sun. i am doing well after a workshop class on somatics and a talk by a fabulous trans activist about loving, hoping, growing, in ways that academics finds hard to say. i am trying to be less afraid of people, and smile at them widely, and think less, and talk more, and not hide. i think i am progressing. i am not a wonderful friend, but i am taking small steps: i am not stagnating.

perhaps everything will change again, a hundred times. i do not think i will remember this time sharply. it is a blurry time. my emotional landscape seems bland and unpredictable, not even very interesting to trace the curves of. perhaps i will be able to write good fiction. i hope i can write myself well.

Poet in the Big City

After three days, the city finally opened itself
to the poet, unfurled its petals like a hesitant blossom
responding to shafts of afternoon light. The poet wandered,
marveling at her footloose days, at fallen leaves, at ruined walls.
The poet spent hours getting lost in the cramped streets of
bookstores, quiet minutes spent with titles like strangers' lives
she would never access. She leafed through verse and prose
until she could taste words blooming on her own hesitant tongue,
could refer to herself in third person, half-amused and half-overwhelmed
by her gloriously human mind, her petty fears, her loves as vast as cities;
and by the city itself, that she encountered anew each day, an insistent lover
she could never learn well enough, a world of strangers and familiar lives.

The poet was still as a wallflower, the words all packed within her but
covered with thin ice. The city expanded and shrunk itself, sometimes
seeming as large as the distance between where the cab picked her up
and where it dropped her off; sometimes as small as the blood-red and
speckled leaf she gathered from the sidewalk to her chest like a gem.
Some days there is enough fear to render her helpless, leave her mind
frantic and desperate, and then aching. Some days the walls of the room
do not seem strong enough to keep the vile world out. It is often hard.
The poet never feels like she belongs, and often confesses how afraid
she is of men on the street: their entitlement, their insistent eyes, their
fearless swagger. The poet has been thinking, but has written nothing
in so many days. She is, as usual, brimming and overfull, preparing
the land for monsoon and then a glorious, sun-yellow harvest.

Today the poet shed off fears like heavy fruit off her branches, let go
of the burdens she didn't need. The poet scrubbed her skin and walked
out in the city, hid only between bookshelves and strangers on the street,
collected moments and sun and dust in the lining of her skin until she
felt as large as love. To be alone in a city is a great adventure, she says.

Later, when the last thin moments of golden light were disappearing
behind vehicles and footsteps, she walked away from her solitude,
skillfully navigated a road full of frantic vehicles momentarily stilled,
weaved through scooters and buses like a small animal in the wilderness.
From the safety of the sidewalk, she marveled at her own swagger through
the city now, her heart swollen and glad, her footsteps racing towards a
kind lover. Her bag was filled with thin books like slices of the moon,
rare and magnificent, shining when she held them in her reverential palms:
how could the world extend anything but love towards her when she
loved it so fiercely, so fully, when she blossomed out of her own meager skin
like a reluctant caterpillar just so she could belong better, be bigger,
just so she could graze the day with her eager fingertips?

winter

it's not winter until everything falls apart, until the knots in my back form a forest of ache, until the transition from one day to the next can seem like, quite literally, a lifetime. everything is strange, and yes, jaswinder bolina was wise when he said -- how easy to wound, how much easier to be the wounded. my heart is breaking in ways that i never knew existed. for all of the organising, the understanding, the closure i ever wanted -- ha! what i get is this, life drenched in irony and longing, my room so cold i cannot step into it without shivers. sunshine is thin and provides no warmth. oh please let me go through a winter without tears, without death, without a sadness so large it eats into my soul. oh please let me go

in love

It is the strangest, wildest thing to be in love. The things that once made perfect sense seem to mean so little; and everything that was confused, scattered, broken... seems to form a perfect blue sky, the most wholesome sigh in my belly. You leave, and I wave wistfully at you through the gate. You gently kiss my cheek, and I know I will trace the shadow of your lips all day. It is absurd. I feel as vast as an ocean, and so hilariously fragile, so easily breakable -- but whole. Literature always taught me that it wasn't possible to feel whole -- but I do, I feel as though the universe has filled me up from my forehead to my toes and I am billowing in the wind, I am wide and complete and so deeply satisfied, so gentle with the world, so at peace. For the longest time, I forgot how to read love poems. They made no sense, they were too soppy, too personal, too much. One could love other people, but how could one be in love with them like this, how could one ache so desperately to graze their lips or to catch a shaft of sunlight on their cheekbone, how could one know someone intimately enough to hate them, to judge them, and still feel only desire, oceans of it wrapped in one's mouth? I thought it could be true only at 14, only when desire is silly and half-uttered and unrequited. But I am not 14, I am older, old enough to have broken hearts and moved so swift that nobody could touch my receding back -- and here I am, back in this room with my desire as big as a house, as a country, nowhere to go and no wish to leave. I map the stains winter sunlight leaves on the furniture, on the floor, on the walls. I wait for you to come back, simply so I can lie in your arms for hours. It is absurd. It is fiction and film, and so hilariously human, so obvious that I never thought I would feel it again. This is also what literature says, is it not? That these feelings are fleeting, and so important, so real -- they add colour, and scent, and flavour to this whole bare task of living, of going on, of pretending as though you will reach somewhere different from where you already are at the beginning of every day. Suddenly there is meaning, and of course it exists in the trees and the sunlight and the fragmented moments that I collect like a madwoman, like a child -- suddenly there is meaning and it exists also beyond me, it exists in the solid, warm body of a lover, and that knowledge frightens me, aches in my belly, and curiously uplifts me, leaves me afloat on the gentle wind. I trust you, and I trust life, and I am here with trembling fingers and tender skin, I am ready to be broken and remade, smashed against a wall of glass only to be picked up again with loving fingers. It is so human, so human.

my name

It is strange but
suddenly
I cannot imagine
you saying my name:
it would taste so odd
but bitingly precious

in your mouth.

I have spent an afternoon
drenched in poetry and longing
but still I cannot trust my words
the way I trust my fingers
on your skin.

still thinking

"I don't know when I will ever come to terms with the fact that articulation is always a 'squandering', that I am giving away more of my self with every word than I can ever get back, balance out."

sentimental explanations

I spend hours on the silver sliver of my macbook: various and irrelevant musings. I edit old posts. Read about printmaking courses that I will never do. Put on my headphones and lick my lips, wondering what it is that my soul is asking for. Eventually when I put on Damien Rice -- after so many long months -- I smile to myself. There is something to be said for sentimentality, after all.

I sometimes wish I wasn't so easily distracted. I console myself because it's not the I at fault -- it's the whole jingbang of capitalist consumerist culture that wants us to flick our eyes from screen to screen, open-mouthed, and never think deep enough to attack the things that need to be attacked. This, then, is a revolution: to stay with my thoughts, to travel deep inside these musings, and create. To read a book from cover to gorgeous cover. To study all the wildly exciting things that I'm studying. 

I have a thousand misgivings about keeping a blog. There is too much, too much I worry about when it comes to the wild forest of the internet, of social media, of easy communication. Some communication cannot be easy. Yet as I scroll down Shinji Moon's blog, or Bhanu Kapil's blog, I am so fucking thankful that these women chose to put up random fragments of their life up on the cruel and vast interwebs for me to read, consume, devour, as it were. The final poetic product is important and often dazzling, but I often want all of it, all of the incomplete and aching words that go into making it before it is made, all the writing that must take place before the writing. Sometimes Shinji's final poem will touch a stutter in my chest, but her vast thoughts and politics pull out that stutter, touch it, force me to travel down the lines of my body until I can unearth it myself. If I can touch somebody in that way someday -- it will be enough. So I write, I reorder, I put up a fragmented biography, a broken archeology of my life. And to be honest, I create temples of posterity whether I am on this blog or off it. All the diaries, all the fragments, all the Evernote notes -- they are all evidence that I am fearful, that I want proof of my existence, that I want to create something I can hold in my hands, or reach back to with a click, and know that it will be safe, like a seed in deep soil. A dead seed, I understand: what is living about the seed is already running in my veins through this conversation; what blossoms in me someday will be a result of the thoughts I think now. So why this, why the obsessive, almost neurotic desire to document, to prove, to hide away? Why this desire for stasis where there can only be river?

What I tell myself today, smilingly, is that we're all looking for ways to stay sane, reasons to hold on and make sense of this vast existence. I could say it subtly or crudely, but here it is. If I could not, did not question, then I would have other reasons to go on -- I could give society all the keys it wanted and play my role as a Good Woman -- I could live day to day because of all the duties and obligations that piled on my back like secret creatures, and I could marry, have children, worry about them. But that's silly, that's not what life would be like today -- I could, I will, I must, have a career! An ambition! I will study, I will get a job, I might choose to marry a lovely man and have children. Worry about them. Watch my body rot away until one day -- poof! -- like a leaf on the wind it will soar beyond my reach. Life is so long, and so hard, and so often it seems so unbearably bare. What keeps you sane? What makes you wake up every day and do all the things you're supposed to? What makes sure you don't curl up into a foetal position and weep yourself to sleep every night? I don't care if it's crude, if it isn't the right philosophical question to be asking, if existentialism is passe -- fuck that, fuck academic sophistication, these are the words that lick my spine and whisper to me with fangs when I am unable to leave the bed. I don't know the big reasons and I am often afraid to touch the big questions -- I don't know how to say them right, how to hold them gently, politely -- and so this is how I stay sane. This here, the temples I build from corners of my life where the lazy afternoon sun burns all edges gold and bronze and a plastic bag flutters in the wind like a poem, where the landscapes of my mind are sometimes solid mountain, and sometimes the uncertain sea. It isn't much (but what is?). I survive (even thrive, sometimes). 

So here I am, as usual, laying out my excuses and escape planes, flyaway bits of paper that hide under my thighs, that I hold down under desperate palms. The words are all I have, most of the time, and I'd always like to do better by them. I hope this means something, I hope I can create some meaning. I am reminded of the things I don't respect enough because they are often the things that matter, that force me to look up, that render me unable to hide. My body is an ocean that I need to tend to, that will wear out and snarl me into acquiescence if I don't pay attention -- listen, hear my stomach growling right this second... I am unable to curl out the twist in my spine, unable to ease out the forest of knots in my aching shoulders. I need to be better to my brown skin and tangled muscles. My mind is a mess, is always a mess, is sometimes bearable, is often interesting.

Meanwhile I remember an old conversation with my wise-and-crazy cousin where he told me -- in all seriousness -- in the middle of an increasingly cynical and nihilistic conversation about politics, relationships, life -- that the only thing that can hold out against the world, that can stay pure, that can change something -- is love. At least that's how I remember this conversation. In my smoky haze I was amused, sceptical. Perhaps he meant it in a more serious and philosophical sense -- right now I am not serious or philosophical. I am sentimental. And the one part of my life I cannot touch with the rough fingers of angst or the bruises of hopelessness is that -- that word, too oversaid by humanity -- the bubble of wholeness I feel erupt in my chest when my body is laid against yours on a bed stained by afternoon light, the laughter over familiar things in which we've built a home for ourselves, a haven. You've punctured my solitude, as Maggie Nelson said, and I've never felt more hopeful about it. I try to work harder, live bigger, feel less drained and bent over under the weight of the world. There is much to be joyful about, much to read, many fragmented conversations to have with so many people. So many sunsets to chase with my silly sentimentality, my disregard for truth, my chest aflame with hope for this life...