kalpaean

I lie in bed reading the New York Times review of the Murakami book (“not morally there but delivers the fix”, like crack cocaine I suppose, not sure if I know with just one of his books under my belt, a book that came with an intriguing recommendation at that), an article on fooling experts with wine tasting (“they all get fooled if the goal is to fool them, but it ain’t all so simple and it’s fallibility of man really”, delivered in this TV documentary style writing that is becoming the staple of all writing it seems) and wait for your call.

Some stupid operational coordination requires a lot of phone calls this morning and I’m trying hard to commandeer the phone without making it all too obvious. It’s been touch and go and I have to act casual or anal (really the same in sense) lest the image of phone hoarding force explanations.

Tea arrives and with it the discomfort of an older middle, somehow on a low diwan (really it does seem that the height of a flat platform does something to sense of orientation even if all your acts are all stuck in the same plane) the act of tracking the phones (one in my pocket one tucked away in the razai), refilling tea cups even drinking, placing the screen angled for the reading glasses and against interruptions, all happens better when the waist is all of 18 and not cruising 80, which is what mine seems to be doing at the moment.

Is she up and is she to the world as she is to me a sort of a background hum and murmur (“enthralling with a hint of seduction”) that saturates like a gait  of fulsome sways would, you think, saturate the room but ultimately just floats through and you are sure it what just a whiff.

As easily lulling as a perfume that hints to the season and you think someone must have left the window open and the morning breeze is carrying it in and that it’s still early summer.

Oh humdrum every day things. So you don’t notice till one day you don’t need to notice. The coach class demur countenance does not do stares and really even love doesn’t change the laws of physics across two different houses and towns five hundred miles away.

Hum and murmur
made of seeing things
Like some strange
cinema projection system

pliable air
warm and cold
molecules move
with hum and murmur
take shape

warmth encouraging
and cajoling
the tiny energies
of little hums and murmurs
the cold holding form

projected ice sculptures
white on white
air on air
clarity without contrasts and shadows
a sense really
of something greater than real.

Till it melts away
ice into clear liquid
gurgles into wet memories
dry ice vanishing
without a trace.

Two different phenomenon
defined by the same law

(too many interruptions and I ended up losing the sense of where I wanted to go with this – i am sure you are wondering about me and your walk.  Seeing things slowly. Painting a picture. What is the process really?  Is a preamble needed, the ink sketch outline of the form, reassuring and seeking permission all together. An homage to bourgeois  manners, the decency of clothes and brief time bound nakedness. Trust that is given without reason, and then claws back at those very reasons, nay demands them)

You remember the piece I wrote about the radar station. I was onto something; I mean that the metaphor is true for me at some pretty fundamental level. I was just struck by this realization and ran off from the bathroom half naked in the cold.

And how?

If I am the storm creator then you have to be the radar, just wonderfully symbiotic, in the nature of this particular so different –resonance on its way to a symphony. And do you see that you have already been, this gift of look ahead – my vanity adds “even enhanced by my presence” my heart says “no, no, no shut up, this is her not just before you, with you or after you, but before time and after time, eternal.”.

When you said this morning, “I know I will get there”, I nearly (or maybe I did) went all wordy there, “hey don’t think about it… blah blah blah”. And an inch away from the bath water it struck me, this is symphony.

Now resonance is passé.

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It may even be more layered, in fact I believe it is. You emote with a flush of passionate intensity and your radar is of the short range, up close kind, vigilant in the milliseconds.

I emote with a flow of words that stretch out long twenty five act plays and my radar is the long range, look ahead one.

We both look after each other, without patriarchy and without protection even though we may swim in waters whose one swirl has perhaps its whiff.

It’s a long time to 9:30, I try to keep myself busy, I’ll shave and bathe. But the geyser is off and it’ll take a while before it will heat. Pour myself another cup of warm tea, make small conversation with those around.

The house is oddly designed, they used to make them like this in the early days, every room has a door into the other. Sound carries easily from one room to another and people are carried easily too. I grew up with this (only partially, growing up I did not spend a lot of time in this house), and have always been aware. But just now, since yesterday, there is a particular urgency. A tearing down of my refuge. I get the sense of the urchin, making a private life in the midst of overflowing refuse, blaring traffic, the sun shooting coals.

There is not much sun anymore, early winter is here. One morning the house turns cold, just like that and just a bit uncomfortable. There is a perceptible drop in moisture, more noticing of the wind and it’s cold with the temperature unchanged. It happens like this in the summer too just the other way round. Too many draughty openings.

Dry winters are my bane. I need moisturizer every other minute, so there is always some in my pocket, my car, my golf bag, my desk, scattered all over the house. Tiny little bottles pocketed from some nice hotel and perpetually refilled.

And I think of your skin and how little memory I have of its particulars. You need a distance, just a little. You can’t create a map without this distance. And when I had the distance I did not look, you need to look intrusively to make a map you know. And now I am suffused by you, krsna has not form just a being. So the next few days will include little interludes of map making, all forms of maps, a catalogue of tapestries painted with inks that give color without permanence and on paper that helps define but does not confine.

 

I awake this morning with a deep spiritual feeling, I sense the presence of god and no longer resist, as I become a believer. The human spirit that was a dying trickle now surges forth slower than before, more voluminous even as the fount settles into the an inner core, radiant and compressing. Merging all life into an infinitesimal singularity; the essence is moot as now life resides.

You are the arduous climb to Mt. Kailash that is the strength of the pilgrims,
the hustle of jostle of the crowds milling around the Kabba that is the faith of the faithful,
the shimmery air of grey seas that is the radiance and centre of the Benedictine chants,
you are the calm of the vedic shloka that gives speed to the sacrificial fire,
the blade of the sikh kripan which carves the sound of shabds,
the stillness of Ganga that shields its flow

I love you not. How can I, for you are the source of all my love, my companion in its discovery, my other half.

I need to rest my anguish for a while on the tender memories of your presence. Attend to the world my half krnsa while your twin goes to the land of wonder.

Even my sleep is nothing but a sentinel to your call.

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Sweet anguish that builds intolerable in a moment

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The anguish of the separation of the coming days rest heavy on rest. It shall pass soon but now as dusk approaches, my visage of dusk, I miss you with a thumping emptiness.

Today we became more than lovers and thoughts of meeting again now sit like a tired longing on a long forgotten anticipation.

Even in the realm of the souls there is a pact with body.

“Nourish me”, says the soul, “and I’ll share but stay not too long lest you be an unwelcome guest, linger not too long in the foyers, voyeurs burn when souls mate.”

“We need but little, but all we get comes from you and you, you are a glutton, much as we trained you long in the subtle art of leaving a single grain.”

“Be not too tempted, you are of the souls and from them and yet not them”

Were you afraid that I may revisit the piece were I to read it aloud or perhaps some tenor in my voice would enhance its sadness for me for you for the two of us. Rest easy love, I am what I am, what I was, what I will be. I am, I know nothing else.

I was maybe..

Words are liberated by your strong shoulders, the past has melted into pathways your love has shaped; deserving is no longer in the lexicon.

Awaken O’krsna the dance waits mid pose for you.

I sit in my bed drinking tea and getting ready for the day. There is a gentle wash all over me, I feel our union, our orbits in resonance across universes. Amazing: now its true meaning has been restored.

Rewriting mythologies, liberating words. Amazing.

I miss you already and yearn to see you again and again and again. To feel your presence, those limpid eyes.

The tea is strong and I make a bitter face, you get busy with the day, drink your tea, read your papers, walk your easy walk, pelvis thrust out just ever so slightly, a hint of splayed feet. Your strong hips holding the core, your center of gravity, your balance, today a little shaken by a stirring inside, unsteady, unsure, waiting to explode to suck the universe in.

Was just sitting down to plan my day and week – my daily planner since the day you arrived is completely blank!  What should I write?

you were the spirit of Columbus discovering, the spirit of Brahma creating, the spirit of Siva dancing on petals, the spirit of Laxmi obligating. And Krsna at leela.

I think of you and how much I don’t want to make love to you but yet share my every sensual breath, my form of it and then let it be yours.

After making love one withdraws, but all I want to make to you is an offering my other half krsna and lay at your feet my basket of treasures, trinkets and trash as an offering without explanation, preamble or prelude. And know that you shall do the same for me. Twameva mamma.

O rhythms of my being. And too many people have before and will after, among them I. An entwining, not a merging, not a thrusting, a togetherness beyond unions.

A rewriting of mythologies.