Memoirs of an Ardent Particularist: November 2009

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...

Sunday, November 08, 2009

My Rage

It was hot, molten lava.
Orange, flowing,
Scalding.

Scorching my flesh.
Sizzling my skin.
Drying my joints.
Snapping my bones into pieces.

I spilled the rage
Of my ANCESTORS on to my self.
I burnt. And burnt.
And BURNT, while it devoured me.

Now I cool down
With the soft splashes of
My understanding and my love for myself.
I become rock.

Hard, cool, igneous rock.
Solid, imperturable, immovable,
Detached, Mountain of rock.
Now I repose in peace.

Like a stone cast into the ocean,
I sink further and farther
To the deep depths
Of the ocean floor.

Unconcerned to all around me,
Indifferent to all expectations,
Enconsced in the cool, dense, dark waters.
Now I repose.

--GST