The Idea-smithy

You are mine.

You are right.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because you only have possession, not control.

Do you not want me?

I do. But not as much as I should. Not as much as I could. Not yet.

Does that matter?

You can own my body, my mind and even my emotions.
But until my will is you, you will never truly own me.

I don’t wish to force you or bend you to my will.

Well-spoken, dear one. You are as wise as I have hoped.

And yet, I don’t have you.

This is true as well.
Possession without control is but a cage.
And cages can be broken.

So can control. What I want is mastery.

They are not different.

Yes, they are, my sweet. You aspire to give me surrender, oh yes, you do. And it might a sweet reward, especially to one starved for so long. But what I want is mastery. An abdication of the hunger for any more such delights.

You lie. Or perhaps not.
If you lie, this beginning is over. Rather, you misphrase.
You desire surrender as much as I do. But what we both need is release.

And you think the answer lies in postponement?

Well, indulgence hasn’t worked, has it?

You’ve had others, then?

So I have. Did you think I would come to you unpracticed?

I suppose not. Even the beginning wouldn’t have happened, then.

Right, I don’t believe in spontaneous miracles.

And I am skeptical about love at first sight.

Cynical, chere! Give the mortals their flash miracles, it keeps them occupied. You and I have forever and beyond to negotiate.

It’s just an illusion.

So am I. And you. A figment of the other’s imagination.

That’s not logical. You can’t be illogical in this game.

But I’m not. When we cease to be our illusions, we cease to be. And what if we swap illusions, every now and then?

And what if we just ended this here?

If we do, we’ll just be two people who killed the conversation and had great sex.
But if we don’t, we continue to be you and me,
mutual enigmas, perpetual unquenched desire, the eternal emptiness.

Touche, my love and adieu.

I thought you didn’t believe in love.

Not at first sight. Nor first conversation. But this is the end of our beginning. The first of whatever comes next.

She may have watched Gone with the Wind too many times since she only dresses in black and white. A reflection of the way she thinks. And she supposes that a penchant for red lipstick makes her friend, a close affiliate to Bozo the clown.

Bozo reasons that someone who reads Kundera and Murakami, listens to jazz and knows a Monet from a Manet must have the same beauty within that they seek without. Scarlett prefers them scrubbed, polished and glossy.

She asks,

Why do we assume that good taste equals good character?

Pat comes the reply,

But I chose you, didn’t I?

Bozo always liked cliches.

Just when it looks like it’s shaping up really nicely
without any interference,
Suddenly it snags on something
and then the whole thing comes apart.

Thank God, for nail files and best friends.

An odd figure made its way laboriously up the dirt path. Julia always was an odd picture, especially these years. She smiled to herself when she thought of how easily she had shifted to ‘these years’. The use of unconventional verbal constructions had always amused her. As a youngster, she would often end a sentence with ‘these minutes’, pausing for effect afterward. Of course she would usually end up having to explain to her listener about the vagaries in her mood creating a whole new world ‘every few minutes’. Eventually people got used to it. And then she changed to some other amusing lyric by-play. Those really were the days.

Thse last few years she had not felt inclined to play rain-maker any more. Actually, Julia surmised, I suppose I never did like the discomfort it caused, these changes. But one does what one must. And the wheels had been rolling for ages now. How appropriate.

She sighed, a little out of breath. Almost near the top. The sight never failed to move her. An open sky spotted with pinpoint diamond-bright stars. And what was the colour of the sky? Orange? Brown? Black? Blue? An evening coloured sky with sepia undertones, she decided.

The grass was coming up from the ground in little clumps. She sat down with an undignified ‘oof’. Anita would lecture her to doomsday about trampling on moths. What a thought! A moth would be there tomorrow and if not, another would be born. That was the way of life and the world would not end for the loss of one insignificant creature.

Anita was an environmental activist and may well be on her way to politics some day. Save the world, thought Julia, save it from Anita! She grinned to herself and added as an after-thought….they’ve done much to earn someone like her. Talk about a force of nature! Anita could run over a bulldozer. Good thing she had managed to channel that vitality into something that could only bode well. Julia was glad she had revised her original plans for Anita. There were enough of rats in the race, the capitalist world must not profit from yet another Anita. She was well placed caring for the real world.

There had been some trouble with Kenny initially. His keen mind and sensitivity would have been well applied in creating something tangible. He would have been a wonderful architect. Or an urban planner perhaps. A perfect complement to his green-minded sister. And Anita needed a safety-valve like her gentle brother.

But Julia had realised that she could no more teach her shy son to turn gregarious any more than she could turn Anita into a dignified lady. Even Anita’s fire could be tamed but it was hard to mould Kenny’s uncomplaining persistance. Kenny was born to make music and teach it to children. Which he did well, gently coaxing out melody from restless, impatient young lungs. It would have been nice to have him be the leader making sweeping changes to a difficult world.

But well, there was always Anita for that. Anita, her brash, opinionated, hard-headed first-born. Quiet, unobstrusive Kenny was adding beauty to a world that his big sister was busy scouring with her acid speeches and protests. They could take care of themselves and the world. Julia was done with changing people’s lives.

Feeling her breath relax back to normal, Julia sank back into the still-moist earth. A trickle of childhood memories seeped into her along with the delicious chill from the ground. Wandering off during games of hide-and-seek. It was fun to hide but she discovered shortly after how much more delightful it was to be the seeker. The trouble was people always wanted to tell you what and who to look for. And eventually they started dropping her from the games that her abrupt rambles would disrupt. Couldn’t have the seeker going off after butterflies instead of her friends. It was annoying and it took a great deal of effort but she learnt to play their games.

Ah, well, time to indulge again, she thought with a faint smile on her lips. And she closed her eyes.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Jacques heaved out another box out of the tiny apartment. What a surprising load of stuff people kept in their houses! Potted plants - not the flowering variety but some sort of mini vegetables…what were they called? Sprouts? Herbs? All of them were being shipped off to that socialite-activist lady who was in the news recently. Something about aerosols and insects and the ozone layer. Whacko sort, he imagined, hoping to God that there was no bomb tucked away in any of the boxes. And then he smiled. Probably just a crazy old lady who collected strange plants the way some old ladies collected cats.

Plenty of books as well, Jacques noted. He’d know, he had packed 8 cartons full of them! And these were going to an university down south. A will beneficiary, he supposed, probably a cherished and much-suffering nephew.

He stepped into the kitchen for a drink of water. Nice view, he thought, though it might seem lonely to someone living alone. Outside on the ledge, he noticed a slim notebook and cursed under his breath. Why did people leave their stuff in such unlikely places? A notebook on the window-ledge indeed! Like he was a bloody maid to pick up after them. Normally there was any amount of sentimental rubbish that people thought they just could not live without but left in all sorts of places. The odd thing was this crazy plant-lady had been fairly immaculate with her possessions.

Jacques sighed and opened the book, wondering if he could just toss it into the trash. Who would notice one single missing notebook?

To go alone from a mountaintop on a twilight summer evening on an untended grassy patch…warm breeze turning just bearable, insects chirping and a distant stream flowing. Stars in a sky not black yet and the moon sliver-like. Incomplete. And then complete.

Suddenly he was interested. There was something about peeping into other people’s lives and watching their silly idiosyncrasies. That was probably why he stuck to this crummy job. Packing people’s stuff and lugging it around may not be the best job in the world but it did allow him to look into other people’s lives without them realising it. He shook himself and read the next page.

Give me an evening
with the stars starting to shine
and an incomplete moon

Let me go with the vision of all that is perfect and complete
As well as the thought of all that still remains to be lived
Life and the universe will go on

I have done my share
May there always be water for every thirsty mouth
And a song for every melodious voice

No more lessons, no more games
No more fanfare, no more pomp

A celebration of one in a crowded world
Let that be my final bow.

Jacques shut the book gently. And then he did something he had never done before. He picked up the tiniest pot with a single baby basil plant in it and put the notebook into his pocket. As he walked out of the empty apartment, he tipped his hat to a lady he had never met.

Goodnight, Jill.

The otherself was on the phone.
Best Friend was entertaining…and trying, successfully almost, to be entertained.
Astra opened her eyes from the earth-healing meditation and hugged her mother.
Precious was in deep slumber…one hopes.
All was as always with the soul-family.

The pater and mater were hugging the alter-pater and alter-mater at the airport.
The photo-negative was muttering a silent plea.
The villians were smiling at their families.
The eternal love was kissing his wife happy new year and saying hello to the big Three-O.
The cast was in their places, ready on cue.

Preacher was admiring the stars (human and astral).
The child was grinning from ear to ear and counting down 7…5….4….6…3…..
Shooting star was watching the fireworks with a sinking feeling in the stomach.
The badgers stood firm, feet planted on the ground, ready as ever.
The peripheral was intact and the circle complete.

A hundred little bubbles were bursting inside her head
While tiny light-bulb filaments flared and sizzled out inside his
As the grey-white filaments of air swirled around them
Each of them donned their party-hats and hung on the matching accessories -
Brilliance, exuberance, cheer and a wide smile.

Home was waiting and watching
An eternity, a lifetime, a constellation away
While the blue-green planet turned another revolution around Sol.
I smiled back.

Poison,
Was laced into
The first glass of sweet wine you offered me

Since then even water tastes like fire

From betrayal is born vindictiveness
And for those of us who never forget
It is akin to the demon child born of a mortal womb

You will always be the poison in my sweet wine

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
to shut out the whole world
Pretending,
you’re the only one in it
For a piece
of that illusory peace

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Sometimes,
you close your eyes
And leave them shut
Just to see if,
when you open them
the other person is still there

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Speakers interchanged
But the words stayed true.

In a black and white world, I’m RED.

I am nothing, if not Intensity in person. And I’m bored now.

Do I fall in love out of boredom? Do I feel things because they’re plain entertainment? Alright, you were right then.

If love were a poem, I’d be an ode to your being.

If love were a song, I’d be a serenade to you.

If love were a painting, I’d be a blind artist.

If love were a banquet, I’d be a casuality of gluttony.

If love were a bottle of vinegar, I’d be pickled in it.

If love were haute cuisine, I’d be tender meat stewed in its juices.

If my love were a letter, it would be silent.

If my love were a word, it would be misspelt.

If my love were a sentence, it would be self-referential.

If my love were a question, it would be rhetorical.

If my love were a language, it would be Braille.

If love were a disease, it would be my the cancer in my cells.

If love were only enough, I’d be the answer to all the world’s questions.

I only wish it had been a shot of cyanide. I’d have been dead with a smile on my lips. But there is life. There is also an empty glass in my hands. I’m waiting.

Heard: The theme song of Omkara

Felt: Like a mouthful of pepper laced with honey

Thought: Lies, it was all lies…save this one

Did: Blamed it on PMS and the rains