Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: September 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...

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

A Dirge to a Piece of My Self.

I hear him sing,
Teazing out a melody,
Strumming his guitar with his fingers
Dancing adroitly between the strings,
Like Naga dancers
Hopping between bamboo poles.

I am so moved
As I watch his form,
One with the guitar,
At peace with the world.

The notes and his voice
Float towards me,
Caressing my soul,
Gathering my emotions
From the forgotten corners of my heart.

So much affection for him
Wells up in me
That I feel as if I have fallen in love
For the duration of the Song.

'In my secret life',
I now tresspass on sentiments
That I can no longer express,
Nor demonstrate towards him.
For they are now rightfully another's.

The Song is over now.

My heart is empty now.

I mourn the death of a piece of my self.

---GST