letter

Walk the talk

July 2, 2016

Dear reader,

I do not mean to be anachronistic in this stylistic nostalgia of ‘dear reader’, but that is how I feel today. It just might be a conversation with one of my scattered selves that I’ve decided to share with you. Yet dear passer-by, I have now defined you. If you will choose to stay here like myself, I will sit by your knee and tell you all my, most ordinary stories. Of Thoureu’s art of sauntering. Where poetry falls into prose and where people who say, ‘oh, you are trying to write prose today?’ are stared at with silly-unkind mischievous eyes. Arts are nothing if not play, as I propose that this letter shall dive down from heaven to be stirred in your often-impatient mind like sugar in warm milk. Like touching several textures at once.

I have a lot of qualms and illogical desires flooding past me like sneaking foxes. But when I write, they sit by you and me and we pet these wild prodigies like dogs. Such is the summary of the whole mind.

The other day I was walking and I saw that the sky was favorably dressed in clouds as if a giant man with a swollen belly, smoking out beautiful cotton-candy smoke. I walked and if you live where I live, you’ll feel injured by the weight of  faded-jeans blue sky too. But not that fine Friday sundown, I didn’t.

The whole day I had my desires fleeting about. I almost felt that I had left my door open in the noon and that the perverse sun had come uninvited, to sit close upon my heart like some nightmarish incubus. But that can be mortally-worded as dehydration. And I decided to sing aimlessly, as if to let out all the water that I’ve swallowed in this reverse-drowning. It helped. The silence afterwards was of a mystical séance. A bad-throated séance-leader was my old fan. The silence where you could hear the gurgling stream of your own mind. That which is only audible around wishful walking and in-depth dreaming. Dreams where someone is throwing handful of cool mud at you, burying you and preventing you from waking up, especially after you’ve slept more than nine hours of your share. I wonder if that is what death feels like?

When the heat came back again in my heart, I switched on the T.V. and wondered why this even need to be put in a future letter or why can’t I forget about this ordinary twitch and nervousness like most people all around. But I couldn’t, thus the T.V.

Anthony Hopkins came on in Surviving Picasso and took the centre stage of my life. Like most divine interventions, I didn’t enjoy it much, or so I thought

When I stepped outside my house to run an errand. I plugged on my earphones like you take antacids to digest complex food that your stomach may feel clumsy with. Funny, I thought. Only yesterday I had to submit a poem on the theme ‘colour’ and the amount of fight I put up with simple themes, is amazing. If you will tell me to write about the flower-pattern lining inside your professor’s shoulder bag that I’ve never even seen, I’ll invite it for a dinner. Yet I found the muse when I had already fulfilled the prompt. An androgynous muse, who changed its gender every time I took a playful step. I was blinded with all the colours, even though my first thought was, maybe Picasso is not my type. The sky was like a mustard colored duck swimming in her own feathers. The road smelled good. The leaves…the trees that had looked rather miserable as if down with a viral fever yesterday, now looked as if they were dressed for an evening ball where all taboo-sparkles and confetti are allowed. I walked so tall that my shoulders ached with the strong grin they made in my silhouette. A stranger came by and noticed my air, asked me my ‘good name’, I flew away like a skittish bird, still entranced. The joy of being lost in every fiber of the world. It sat in my heart and the road I walked, I engraved in me. That night I dreamt of most beautiful colours in the most playful way. I realized, in me lived something that liked and hated things on its own accord. Something so natural and independent of a conscious me, it would corrupt the moment I’ll write it.

Liberated in a small ladder-house, I write till my blood colours my veins red and I blush with happiness.

Such was my walk. And I hope, such will be this awfully ordinary letter to you. To breathe in false glories is something we do every day.

Love,

Writer

 

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Mrs Romeena (II)

Dear Mrs Romeena,

Can you tell me what happens to people when they die? Papa won’t tell me but he puts me to sleep believing that mumma would come to me in dreams. He tells me funny stories too! He talks about the Queen of blueberry muffins and a land where the bed sheets are made of strawberry tinted ice creams. Imagine rolling over the cream and never feeling nasty at all. Just all the time smelling like strawberries and strawberries! I asked him then if there were any more strawberries, I would like to paint the blue walls red. I told him I would squish out the red  juices onto her dull blue walls. But you know Mrs Romeena, he didn’t let me paint them! Mrs Romeena, he won’t even let me touch them at all!  I asked him why and he said he liked the gentle blue walls better and the red color would be too noisy for the place. I wish Mrs Romeena, If you were with us, you would have told him that he was wrong and red would have indeed looked delicious, at-least to you. I also told him that colors do not make noises and he was a fool.

But Mrs Romeena, tell me what happened with Tiffany? Papa was crying a lot when she died. He kept on saying that “she left me too” and didn’t eat for 2 days. It is difficult fot me to imagine that and I do not understand it at all. I mean, I am with him and you are with us too, right? We all can live together like mumma, Papa and I used to live earlier. But this doesn’t answer my question again. What happened to Tiffany, Mrs Romeena? I overheard Uncle Jeff talking about something like a ‘heart attack though’. I think she died in some sort of a game. After-all who can attack people in their hearts,  aren’t they supposed to be hidden away from people who might attack them? And then I thought it deeply and concluded that you are better off with some burnt bones instead of troubling your nerves over protecting your heart. Oh heavens! I am worried about my heart but it is funny!

Alas, you are a dumb creature, Mrs Romeena. You can’t tell me where my mum or perhaps, Tiffany stays. For I like to die someday too. But I think you are a little habitual to me like I am to my strawberry milkshakes. I saw you following me to the bathroom that other night. For once, I would have run down the whole hallway screaming towards daddy. But then, recognizing your never-blinking bloody eyes and those bug-inflicted hair, I walked back to my bed silently and decided to live with you after-all. Don’t behave anymore strangely now and please don’t try to grab my legs in sleep or I’ll tell Papa and he’ll call a priest.

Yours only,

Katie