El Condor Pasa

I will never find release from my demons, my newest crane tells me.
I must simply gain control.

Don't take the words of others and infuse them with wafting plumes of meaning, till the room is full of smoke from a fire that never was.

The little, glossy, menu-card flyer crane is as wise as it is new to this realm of crane shaped wishes. He looks a little cocky with the a little 'chick' from 'chicken coleslaw sandwich' branded on his wing. He's like a wise John Travolta (from Grease) crane who wants me to know to remind me that I am a creature who conjures up my own crosses. Then, when it comes to carrying this multitude of very small, insignificant but very heavy crosses around, I end up whacking the people I love the most in various tender places.

*sigh*

Don't take an innocent string of sentiments and embellish them with lace and lilies and make them into a crown of torture for yourself. Don't believe that the lace and lilies belong to anyone but you. Especially if you have been categorically told so over and over and over again.

If you must lift the veil that shrouds events you have no idea about, then do that around someone who was there. Do that aloud and not in your head where every woman turns into a flaming succubus and all you can do is writhe in the pain of never knowing and never being sure.

For once stop believing that every woman is a flaming succubus.
They are not all sirens trying to lure sailors to their doom. The Universe shall not plot against you if you don't believe it to be plotting every waking moment, in your head.

Calm down, says my little crane of infinite wisdom.
Don't be so blinded by the fact that you feel like a stranger. Wait till you are told that you are one before you begin to sob yourself into oblivion about it. Don't imagine yourself into a life of misery, feel miserable and then wait for someone to rescue you without you being able to tell them what you need rescuing from. Be sane.

But I know, you won't. And I know you will be the same, wretched, little mess the next time. And while you have been sufficiently frightened this time, you will not let that fear do good things for you.

The little crane knew me so well.
Within minutes it had predicted the grand phoenix cycle of self destruction for me. Just like, within days and minutes I tread the path to alienating the people I love. Just like I put I have decisively put my whole life's happiness in jeopardy just because I'm a stupid, little monkey who can learn nothing more than the old cymbal-clanking monkey business with any amount of dexterity.

Amen.

Me and You

I need to apologise to You.
This year and like every year before it, I've run you down.

I'm sorry for always thinking you can't achieve something. I'm sorry for the preamble of 'I'm sure I won't be able to.' I'm sorry I've put you in a box to which I seem to have misplaced the key. I'm not going to give up with 'I can't find it.'

I'm sorry I underestimated how attractive you are, in some way or another. I'm sorry I've been surprised at compliments when clearly, you deserve them. I've laughed instead of smiling; I've doubled over, guffawing instead of bowing gracefully.  I'm sorry I stood down in the face of a challenge that you were rearing to meet.

I apologise for the number of times I've let your dazzling potential remain just that- potential- because I didn't supplement it with enough preparation. I'm sorry I've eaten up your mindspace with needless thoughts. I've wasted your bandwidth with some very pointless wondering.

I wish you'd forgive me for beating you up even when it's not your fault. I hope you'll forgive me for when I have you bear the brunt of my work. You never complain when I do things that aren't mine to do. I hope you'll forgive me for the strain and the aching that was not yours to nurse.

I know that while you rejoice in the adrenaline of hard work, you wish that I'd let certain things go. I know you wish that I wasn't such a tyrant because I'm constantly giving you dark circles and gaunt cheeks. I wish you'd forgive me for how much I overdraw your account of tears and how little I spend your smiles.

In my heart I wish that you'd believe that I'm truly sorry.
But I see your wry smile at my naive assumption that I'm on the path to changing all of that. I see you shrug as you anticipate another year, yet another quadrennium of promises to be a better me for you. But believe you me, this year and here on end, you have an ally and an anchor like you've never had before.

I resolve nothing for another passing "new" year.
But I want you to know, I know.

Love and sincerity,
Me.

My Crane Wife

So when my crane wife flew away to warmer climes, I began to fear for the strength of our bond.

Yes, it was a terribly stupid thing for me to think that there was anyone to replace me. But I thought so, nonetheless.

Today, my crane wife flew back to me. I don't think I can count the span of how long she has been away in months or minutes, seconds or semesters. I think that the only way we can count how long she has been away for is by the tears she saw when she returned.

Wrapped up in the coil of her long, flowing ideas, she returned to me, just the same as when she left. It was like there was never a breath that came between us. She still fit the same; one curve still felt moulded into the other and each hug felt a like a dress that never needed altering. It felt like not a day had passed since the last bone crunching hug and not a week had gone by since I heard her familiar tones-- familiar words rendered in familiar ways.

Her hands are the same little carriers of warmth and solidarity and to see her form behind the familiar tablescape of coffee glass, sugar bowl and grimy glasses of water was too much for my fox-trotting heart to bear. There she was: resplendent with the glow of four rich months of academic skinny dipping. She was the same. She is the same.

And she still loves me.
And she loves me.
And she always will love me.

The curve of her presumption that we will be the same, no matter what was as shocking as a grand jete and as beautiful. Her nest has grown and accommodates considerably more people but I still find myself in the inner sanctum, whenever I take the time-- or clear the jealousy long enough to look around.

My crane wife.
As wide as your wingspan may be, I love how you make the most comfortable little ring around me. 

The Hazards of being a Chameleon

Dear William,
Your Philippa is a chameleon.
I've seen the shades of insecurity
In the daylight robbery of your tastes
As I wander around searching for
My brand of spice with which to flavour my life.
You offer me the tastiest hors d'oeuvres
For my eager, green sampling
And the moment I feel the mad insecurity sweep in
I want to lash out and deny it all.
I want to send it all back,
Return it without love,
I want to refuse your every kindness
To feel a sense of self
Before I realise I feel none.
Your Philippa's a chameleon
Who doesn't remember the colour
She calls her own.

The Lost Words

If it fails to suffice,
This tungsten tinted lifetime
Then, for you, I'll believe in reincarnation.

And, given the choice,
I'd relinquish my rhyme
To find a sunshine bathed, green gold salvation.

But I shall find a device
By which I buy some time
For the rhyme and the word, lost in translation.

While they giggle and run
Through my brightened mind
They seem to have a keen sense of balance.

But when the moment does come
For them, a place to find
On a paper they seem to find a new nuance.

If it were just one,
A quirk, I wouldn't mind
But you seem to turn my words into chronic truants.

And so in the rain or in the sun,
I struggle to forge a bind
That will keep them from falling completely to ruins.


It is testamemt to your unwanted victory that i cannot even seem to sing praises of the inspiration you afford me.  

Love, French Fried

Tuesday comes like clockwork

Without a tinge,

the lightest blush

Of skin the glowing colour of delicately french fried onion.

Wednesday follows obediently

And i feel

The surging rush

Of a sense of living at the very bottom of a dark, dismal canyon.

You shout out on Thursday

In that peculiar,

Gold-green-ringed,

Spiralling, laughing, wondrously mocking timbre.

You are a Fridetonation

With a glowering radius

Leaving me lightly singed

And touched by the sauteéd love for delicately french fried onion. 

Magic Tricks and Trunks and Tics

Hola!

(Oh dang! Is it too much of an enthusiastic greeting? [Who says 'dang' anymore? Even in their minds? Where does that word even come fro.....?] What am i coming across as? I mean surely ---'s going to laugh at me for sounding so-oh forced...)

This is me! I'm going to lead you through my papercranelife and maybe introduce you to my papercranewife and then we're all going to be the best of chums. In a sense.

(There. That is me. 
They say that a woman is supposed to be enigmatic. A woman of mystery, seducing the world by how little she tells them, charming them by her enchantress' ways... 

But the only sort of woman i know how to be is the 'I'm all in' girl. 

...Ahthaaat! That is probably why i'm so insecure...hmmm....new point for me to ponder [and for you to roll your eyes about because it only gets bigger and badde...] to the end of the world. 

[Seriously, woman. 
If Marvin the Paranoid Android needs a mate, you're it. You can get together and have frowning- little-worried-half-to-death-but-not-dying-so-they-can-panic-some-more babies and then all will be right with the world. 
Jeez, woman!]
Shh...

So you see, you're going to know all about me in the first few cosmic instants of our becoming acquainted. You may not know the nittygritty about my day and the little things that may or may not happen [even though i make a note of all those things so i always have something interesting to say {oh crap, i won't say them to you because that might mean that i am talking about me...and you might not rank that among your top qualities in a 'me' AND I DON'T WANT TO PUT YOU OFF...*breathe breathe breathe*} to you about the way my life progresses]simply because they are inconsequential until they become fossilised events of the past. 

BUT i digressish.
Here's the deal, i put the whole trunk in front of you, open it rather ceremoniously and with a lot of loud giggling and clawing at your wrist and burning eyes and all that jazz and i'll throw things at you from it. And basically it will be empty in just a tick and you will be staggering under the weight of the mad stack of all my hats and masks and the flouncing, snaking scarves and the odd feather boa of a riot of colours...and then you will...)

No,
you will not. You will stay. You.

Who wouldn't love you?

     He asked me, in that calculated tone-- when i told him that i had not blogged in a long time-- 'Is it because of me?' and i had, honestly, answered him, 'yes.' Now it is because of him that i am here again.

     I've been plagued by the tenacity of definitions. Or shall i put it this way-- by the tenacity of conventional definitions. They're the sort of creatures that swim around at your ankles like a great slime of eels and if you allow them to, they will take for themselves the pleasure of sneaking in through your ankles and riding up your nerves into your brain.  

      But enough of the grimness. It makes me forget what I started out wanting to talk about.
      The ones out there that i count into the 'friends' bit, the ones that make me incoherent and illogical with mad happiness, the ones that make me want to say things that are incredibly smart but all i end up doing in whinnying like a joyous horse and saying something terribly inane. This is for you, all of you that make it bright and shiny in the corridors of memory and also the only ones that are capable of turning the lights out so fast-- when i spin into the dark labyrinth of need and desolation. All it takes is the thought that i haven't been there the way the movies and the sictoms and the facebook albums make it out to be. I have definitely not taken a call from you or not replied to a text...surely (and this, without doubt) i have not been there to meet you when you were over for a flying visit. I may have (and i have) made promises about visits to your wonderful cities-- maybe come there and returned without a glimpse of you-- but there is one thing for sure, you have been on my mind.

*       In sickness and in guilt, in happiness and in the throes of any romance-- whether it be the romance of a new city or a passtime or the real thing, i have thought of you. I have bragged about you and i have made no bones of being a bad friend. I have been. But all the while, i have (always) known that there is nothing that would stop me if you asked for help. If you said the words, and you asked me to do what you need me to do, i'd do it.

      Now comes the time to talk about the times that i haven't. If ever. Give me that chance, please. I'm sure it will be worth your while. There is rarely the freedom to come to you for fun and there is always the feeling of prioritising the 'wrong' things, but do know, that this retardedly affectionate psycho, loves the crap out of you. And i do.

     And i get jealous too.

*sigh*

I love you guys. :)

*The picture is symbolic.

Seaside Summersun

Almost like i found:

a new heartbeat, 

a secret song;

ballerina slippers

that have been twirling all along

tungsten lit ribbons

of road and memory,

born-- entwined together--

of sun-kissed revelry.

crimson banners of wonderment

hung against stark white walls

lit in tones reserved for art,

silence echoes through the halls.

footsteps seem to disappear

in the hush of fallen laughs;

crimson bleeds into the white heart

and the whole engulfs the half.

twirling, still; spinning yet

it's time to rush away

a burning thrill; a french sunset,

the night consumes the day. 

The 25 and then #26 snuck up on them all.

So after years of having carried around the inspiration, today (meaning the three days that it takes me to think) I settle in into making that list of 25 things about me. They may be random things about me; perhaps, perhaps not. That depends on how well you know me. But here they go. Before it looks like I'm chicken or something.

1. Times in my life are defined by the songs that were playing in my head. If you don't make me think of a song, or if a song doesn't make me think of you, then you probably need to spend more time becoming important to me.
2. I'm not all that fond of Maggi noodles. I'm more of a greasy Hakka noodles sort of girl. Not even spaghetti makes the cut. Maggi in emergencies with cheese and lots of ketchup is satisfying. But nothing quite gets me like Hakka noodles do.
3. It has come to the notice of people around me that I try to say the nice thing. I claim I'm honest. But there are so many times I chicken out of being just as honest as I'd like to be.
4. Though that may be jinxing it,  I love my left ear more than I love my right. It's true, I do love one a little snip more than the other. It's only because my left ear looks like it's been nibbled off at the corner and that seems to give it more character.
5. I'm freaked out by outright dirty jokes. Unless some crafty wordplay is involved. I'm freaking out right now. Subject closed.
6. It's so frightening to me, to talk about myself incessantly, that at this point, I have gone over the post and tried to eliminate 'I's from the start of each 'thing'.
7. Mustard is the most beautiful sauce. Everything, from the colour to that tang it leaves on your tongue is beautiful.
8. The maddening worlds of Star Wars are the only realms of fantasy that I can lose myself in. I'm grateful that I have a walking Wookieepedia to talk to about it all.
9. I may just be a copycat. Or a chameleon-shape-shifter. I find myself being like that when I write (and this post is testament to my camouflage) or when it comes to music. And it has done well for me. I am much richer now that I have the picked pockets of Cohenophiles, Doors lovers and Floydians. 
10. I would have liked to be a ballerina. A Russian ballerina, to be specific. I love the flowing lines of their bodies and the way that there is structure to every rise and fall of their movement. Even the chiffon, tulle and taffeta look like there is life in them and that they have their own grace. I love watching (yes, because the doing will be rigorous like nothing I could ever imagine) the dance movies. The Centre Stages and the Black Swans will forever fascinate me more than anything in the world. 
11. Thinking of all this dancing: it is my one wish to be able to dance. I fancy trying my hand at it all and dance is one thing still left to try.  
12. Geeky conversation is fascinating. I like the sitting, listening and learning more than when I find myself talking. I prefer listening to nerdiness than jock blabber and bimbo jabber.
13. I'm terrified, paranoid and chicken in general. Incidentally, this found itself (without planning) at #13. Hmmm...curiouser and curiouser.
14. I collect people. I collect experiences related to people. Everyone is a little something for the shelves and bookcases in my head-space.
15. I'm absent minded. Like this post has had me put down numbers and then forget what I wanted to put against them. I forget terribly important things like telling the mother that the bai is not coming or... well, I forgot. Again. It ends up looking like I don't care. But I just don't remember that you're running a temperature or that the last thing we spoke about was how your boyfriend called you 23 times after you fought.
16. Darth Vader is the scariest thing to have happened to me. I still find myself tensing up when the Imperial March plays. His mechanical breathing is enough to give me goosebumps. Something about him being the most terrifying Dad in all history.
17. There are a million times that I write for myself. I snicker at the things I put up knowing fully well that a third of the references are only funny in my house-of-mirrors-of-a-brain <<At post #18, I'm thinking: Are there more things about me?>> 
18. Millions of times I write, deliberately for the benefit of someone else. If I can't countenance the anger or sadness or euphoria of a 'someone' then they become a post. Status messages with secret coded references, songs and or the occasional initialism; they are all how I make you know that I'm talking to you... You talkin' to me?
19. The last two were, essentially, about the same thing. And that could count as cheating on a post like this and that makes me think about how I have the most gargantuan fear of consequences. And that makes cheating at anything a gruelling experience. Exams are the worst because cheating is happening all around you and there are people peeking and there are people watching to catch the peeking people and there are so many ways things could go wrong....nooooo! It's terrifying.
20. I love keeping text messages. There are days when I do go through the ones I've kept. In the early days when phone inboxes were about the size of a cockroach wedged into a little crack in the wall, I'd take the time to write out the messages that I 'needed' together with the name of the sender, the date and time (down to the second) and if it was a memorable conversation, then all that I said. I am the biographer's dream!
21. I will try not to lie about where I am in case something happens and I die and my parents find out that I lied to them. *shudder* My parents scare me even beyond the grave (mine). 
22. Tattoos. I'd like a tattoo. I just can't imagine having one symbol etched onto my skin for the rest of my life. It's too big a responsibility. What if I stop believing? I think I'd put the idea through a time-commitment test just to see how long it lasts. The current idea is running it's third year, I think
23. (Won't start with an 'I').. I'd like to grow older. I don't understand the 'don't want my 19th, 20th, 21st...birthday' sentiment. I want to know what happens. So yes, I want to get older.
24. <<At post #24, I'm thinking: Oh. 25 things are way too many for anyone to read!>> I hate cameras. They're watchful and judgmental and it's disconcerting to have one inches away from your face. Ever since a sketch artist (I mean, he's not even supposed to be that observant/honest/cocky...) zipped out a sketch of me with every blemish on my skin rendered as clearly as in a hi-res picture, I have hated the idea of being captured on anything. But now, I'm minding less. Less, like a relative term.
25. I'm prissy. I will be prissy about everything. Prissy to the point of being a dictator. <<And since I will not be ending on a bad note, I will add a #26!>>
26. I LOVE the letters of the alphabet. The concept of a set of symbols so potent... *sigh* and aptly, I end at 26. For the English alphabet.

And you, reader, have been brave. Thank you. May this random knowledge of me enrich you in the most futile of ways. *enlightened smile*

There's but one Sun or Summertime II

Summertime,
Close in around me
In an endless mist of The Doors
And the sense of coffees lost
To a heatwave beaten
By the cool shade that threads across
A yellow rug
Or a red bedspread.

Summertime,
You'll bring with you
The yawning longing for days spent
On the roads, on wings
Like flying birds heading toward
The shade of a Lovetree.
Maybe it'll all just be a dream...
Maybe summertime will return to me
The anticipation that weighs down the sky
Before the first, trembling April rain.

Fly back to the horizon
To that point in the sky
That lies behind all the memories
And yet beyond this weightless now.

Summertime,
Return to me
The love of an Indian Summer.

Afternoon Light

Keepers of time,

They were scattering light 

In refracted smudges 

Onto me.

I laugh to the ceiling and 

You laugh with me.

We're light and floating

Like in a glossy movie.

I trip like a fairy

(Afloat on a drug?)

She's lithe and pretty

And today so am I.

It's the consequence 

Of the study and all the academic 

Glances that you have been using

To unravel me.

So tea in a pot, 

And all the fancy what-not,

Adds to the shine

Of the afternoon that was mine.

And you will know my truth, and my truth will set me free.

Look at me
But not through your eyes.
It's not you that the voice wants to break and grind into the ground.
It's not that you are the one that I am lashing out against.

My voice, leaping and soaring into the reaches of 'disrespect' and 'insolence',
'Arrogance', does not want to tear through your flesh at all.
No.
It's not you.
It's the glass cage I'm stuck in.
The sort that allows you to believe that I look and seem to move OK.
Ergo that I cannot be anything but 'OK'.

So imagine, the sort of resistance my voice has to face;
To scratch and drill through the diamond walls
That I built for myself;
To belt out and reach you,
Through the gag of your self righteous anger at me,
At my brazen 'disrespect'.
Imagine the dense glass and convincing glamour I've cast,
That it has to splinter through
To draw you out to the point where you might flinch
Because of my version of the truth.
My truth.

Imagined it?
But it's only for a split second, before you realised,
'This is not supposed to be my reaction.'
Yes, so far, your role has always, always had to be that of the injured party,

The poor mangled victim of my youthful bitterness
That clearly has--
And can never have--
A logical reason to exist.

Because my 'negligible age' cannot possibly have reason
To think beyond myself.
Obvious.
That I am nothing but self-centred.
Individualist to the point of hurt and torture.

So be it.
You shall remember these years
As the worst of my life,
Maybe the worst of your lives with me.
You will think that I will eventually apportion blame.
But remember that this wasn't the sound
Of young, arrogant pride.
It was the gunshot, the sharp, heavy crack
Of something reaching a breaking point.



me.

Light and Stone

Isn't it just so odd how there are things about people that you just simply cannot remember? Like the teeth of that classmate who refuses to smile...to smile right... in any of her pictures. Or that particular route that you took that took your breath away. Sure, you're standing on the cobbles and your friend asks 'where's ----?' and all you can do is daftly (and oh so confidently, after a few moments of cleverly gathering up your scattered bearings, or so you think) point in the opposite direction, All you can do and then, is be led, almost  dragging yourself away from the breathtaking sights, down fascinating streets. And that is when you remember why you have no recollection of the place! It's not the lack of familiar surroundings. Nay, the feeling of being 'home' is undeniable.

Reach out and touch the stone, run your fingers down the grey, old spines. There's a story for every crack and crevice, there's a little secret nestled in the eaves and you know that secret...if only you could remember it. The walls are whispering all the time and if you tuned out the sounds of the throbbing city, you'd hear all they have to say.

But! You were too busy gawking at the pilasters and the capitals and looking for other motifs like the polar bear on the Canada House (if the name is even the right one) or maybe looking to see if there were any diamonds accidentally caught in the leaves of the peepal trees. You missed the talking door frames and the ancient locks, you missed the wrought iron grilles and the feeling of erstwhile grandeur.

Maybe the gargoyles distracted me.

But i remember now, the feeling of the sunshine on my face and not a care in the world; besides that the day had to be over soon.

Maybe people had never noticed that places could be warm without referring to temperature. That stone could glow and that skylines would sing in hypnotic baritones. I could live in a tent on those streets; where buildings have names with ampersands and arcades flood with jewelled light. Is the light a sign of time trapped? It's still and i feel a sense of an era frozen in the grim lines of stone that sometimes flower in symmetric Gothic obedience and sometimes plummet in great, sheer heights.

Light and dark, this is where my heart lives sings soars!