Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: January 2008

About Me

Suffice it to say that I am an ardent particularist. What this means is that I like to look at the particulars (Duh!). So for example, I like the deep furrows on a withered tree trunk, the jet black curly hair of a woman walking past me, the swing of a very short skirt on the behind of a girl in front of me, the sunflower like irises in my husband's blue pupils, the soft and gentle curves of his body, the shape of a pebble that skirts off the tyres of a truck at a construction site, the toc-toc-toc of the table tennis ball on the table, the feel of a full mango fruit in the palm of your hand, a bowl of translucent, red, pomegranate seeds, the speckled sunlight on a patch of grass under a tree, the deep yearning for someone you care about and love, the deep sense of grief when you have to forget someone you love, the mixture of white steamed rice and pink oleander petals strewn on the cold dark stone tile of the temple, the smell of a decaying banana leaf, the pungent smell of a raw mango just fallen from the tree, the clang of utensils and the clamour of sundry voices and stray dogs infused with the smell of boiling tea as India wakes to life every morning, and so on...

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

My Muse

My Muse sings when
I am stripped naked,
down in the mud,
covered with wounds,
bleeding, oozing, gaping, throbbing
in pain.

With my heart clenched tight
in a stranglehold,
squeezed until it bursts open
and spills the hidden, dormant
song birds.

And as they sing,
I heal.
My wounds dry close.
My heart feels light.
The scars slowly fade away.

My muse departs
Now that I am healed and clothed.

I search for her.
But she cares not for me
until I am stripped naked,
down in the mud,
covered with wounds,
bleeding, oozing, gaping, throbbing
in pain.

My foul weather friend,
My lover on lonely nights,
My caresser, my comforter,
My sigh, my voice, my wail,
My scream,
My silence,
My muse.

I need her more than I need myself.
So I lay myself open
to the elements of nature,
to those of my mind,
to all whom I love,
to be hurt so deep
that my muse may come back to me.

---GST