Secrets of a Daisy

I kept you here in my heart of hearts

I kept you here in the womb of my soul

I kept you here until it was time

I kept you here until I knew

And you were sown

In a soil well prepared

By the tender rain of sentiment

A bittersweet parting

And you grew strong

I tended you as your Shepard

I grew as you grew

I watered you my hopes

I fed you my dreams

You took root in my soul.

I shone when you shone

In the light brought of selflessness

I bent when you bent

In winds of doubt

And you grew strong

I abated the pests and lies that came for you

I kept them from your growing stalks

I abated the plunderers that came to suck you dry

I kept them from your bloom

And you grew strong

I kept you alive as your roots were torn

I kept you alive as the strings to my heart twisted

I kept you breathing as my breath grew shallow

And then all that remained was your shadow

And nothing remained but a phantom scent

And nothing remained but cold

And here I weep

The solitude grows weak as anew

A seed grows again in the womb of my soul

And the bud of trust lives on

Get out of jail free

I had this feeling today- you know the one where you feel as though you’re standing still on the sidewalk and all around you the rest of the world is moving by at fast forward. So fast it’s blurry. And as they pass people keep jostling you, not even noticing. Not even apologizing.

I’m beginning to wonder whether they’re moving the way they’ve always moved. And maybe it’s me that moving really slow. Strange.

And until now I have been unable to pinpoint the cause of this unrest. That is until I made the realization that I need fall.

That is to say that I need the autumn season. You see, I’ve been living in a place where it is one season all year long – not bad most people would say to have summer all year round, sun, flowers, warmth and a golden tan.

Well, you’re partially right, the sun, flowers and warmth are all here but I seem to be getting whiter not browner. That however, is not the problem.

The problem is that I’m a creature of the universe…one that happened to be born in the north where every year come September the maples decide its time to strike a fashion statement and break out the fiery wardrobe. Granted that this gorgeous display of crackly leaves and vibrant colors is followed by a hell-bent winter that attempts to wipe out the population one blizzard at a time – it’s the autumn bit that I really miss.

It’s not so much that my body is gearing up for some sort of hibernation and it’s confused by the environment, it's the associations I’ve come to make with fall that are causing me distress. As long as I can remember, every fall has brought about a chance to get a fresh start. A new school year, new teachers, new classrooms, new pencils, new things to fill my summer emptied head with.

I miss the pencils. I miss the shopping for brand new school supplies and the things that they’ve come to represent. I miss fresh starts.

Perhaps it’s a part of growing up. Life has become more of a run on sentence with the occasional punctuation provided by short holidays. The new chapters that were guaranteed by a youth divvied into neat little sections labeled work and play are not as easily discernible. I can no longer spend long summer days clearing my head. Apparently, I’ll need all the wisdom I can retain in the coming years. My pencils are now purchased out of necessity and not simply because it is time for a new set, to start over.

Is this the end of clean slates? Is this when I realize everything counts. That mistakes and foolishness will not be forgiven in the name of youth.

I don’t know if I’m ready. I know I could use one of those 'Get out of jail free' cards every now and then, get a do-over, get out of scary situations with a little pass. Or even the 200$ that comes with passing 'Go', but that's a different story. At the end of the day I'm sure the crisp winds will continue to bring about change. But it will never be quite the same as those cold September winds of childhood.

Ugly Betty

As you can see my phone is half as big as my foot. There is only one word for it - ridiculous. My own father laughed at me, he told me his phone from the 90’s was smaller. Then he took pity and offered me his new phone.

I’m still suffering. I bought it in a fit of panic; it was all I could get within walking distance. Clearly, I was very desperate.

The thing about this ‘phone’ is that it has a life of its own. It’s sort of like a pubescent teenager: it has attitude, it works when it wants, it calls who it wants and it has the most annoying habit of gabbing away in its static voice, drowning out everything else. Not only that but it’s extremely bipolar. It will unexpectedly throw its suicidal self out of my hands and bust into 4 pieces; only to mock me by coming back to life when put back together.

I hate the damn thing.

Additionally, it's hideous. It’s like one of those giant squashed bugs you see on the road and you can’t look away because the grotesqueness has left you dumb founded and amazed. All it needs is a retainer and the awkwardness will be complete.

Upside down, Inside out

It was one of those days. A day when I felt like the proverbial cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way. A feeling like my hair had been backcombed and my clothing were stuck with static. As though my mind had been shaken and stirred and left a mess. Flustered.

Mentally and physically unsettled.

I needed a walk. I needed to go somewhere where I didn’t recognize anything or anyone, where I had no associations. To clear my head. To regain my peace. But since that wasn’t possible I came home and tried to shut out the world.

I sit at the table and I feel that I should study. I sit on the couch and I can see all the things that need to be done. I lie on the bed and I’m tempted to sleep.

I need to think. I need space. I need sanctuary.

‘If I lay here, If I just lay here. Would you lie with me and just forget the world.’

An idea.

So I do it. I lie down on the floor.

I feel foolish. If anyone could see me they’d think it odd. But, no one can see me and I can’t see anything from down here either.

The floor is…well it’s the floor, it’s entirely neutral. It has no associations, it’s not reminding me of anything. It’s not telling me to get up and go. It’s not telling me to finish this or that. It just is. And at the moment - I just need to be. It seems like a good place to lie and clear things up.

It’s painful. My bones are pokey and the floor is cold. I can’t think and I’m very uncomfortable.

Wait. I can’t think. Brilliant. I’m beginning to see an inch. The chaos is becoming preoccupied with the discomfort. The pain gate theory has taken affect. One stimulus has been drowned out by a more immediate and dominant one. The inch has become a foot. The unsaid thoughts are drifting into corners and the swirling emotions have tied themselves up and are sitting, waiting to be untangled. It’s calmer.

Floor therapy is not so bad.

Somedays are like this, they just attack me. Sucker punching me and leaving me winded. But since I can’t pick a fight with my life I’ll settle for these small time outs while I contemplate how to befriend the bully.

For my future children:

When I was your age I had a car named Binny that was more beast than machine. You’re lucky you go to school in the morning without fear and fond flashbacks of your childhood flashing through your mind as you face unknown danger.

Binny had a mind and a will of his own. And had I not mistaken the length of his front and run into a wall he may have continued to run the AC as he chose and I’m certain had he had it his way we would’ve melted onto the weathered seats one fine day in the tropics.

Although Binny was not unfeeling and a cool wind was provided to us through the indomitable back window, which slid down with every mile we drove and gave us the constant reminder to mind nature and its wonders, as rain poured into the back seat and drenched its occupants.

Binny our accomplice on many night time adventures granted us a grand sense of excitement by puttering on with headlights that provided about as much light as two dim flashlights. Leaving us rounding corners blindly not knowing what would meet us as we straightened up – car, deer or the roaring sea.

As I owned a quarter of Binny I must say I did admire how Binny never ceased to spring something new upon us. Always eager to test our resolve and resourcefulness, some days Binny’s bumper would threaten to tip off the one rusty screw that held it in place and on others Binny would throw his hubcaps off and slouch down on a flat tire. Determined I daresay to give an air of casual humor. ‘Leave the humor to the punch buggy Binny, you foolish Hyundae’, I’d say.

Sigh.

Binny in all his wonder was a free spirit. He refused to be dominated by a driver and it took a great deal of muscle and time to flex the wheel on anything resembling a turn. I do not attribute this to the continual leakage of power steering fluid but more to Binny’s wild attitude and disregard for authority.

In particularly reckless moods Binny would scream from the front left tire area when making turns. A shrill, frightening squeal that enticed the passengers to cling to the seat and say a prayer or two as they wondered when exactly they’d entered a high speed car chase reminiscent of a Bruce Willis movie and occurring at the remarkable speed of 30 mph.

I’ll look back a year from now I’m sure and wonder what poor jungle creatures Binny is terrorizing after he sped off into the jungle upon realizing we were attempting to drop him off at the car pound.

Turning Tables

After a draining final exam month and then a much needed break I came back without inspiration. This unfortunate period lasted for about a week. But now my passion is reignited. Thanks to my roommates. No, don’t be alarmed I have not, dear friend, been keeping you in the dark about my life. I do not in fact share amusing moments with comical yet lovable roomies who may be messy but at the end of the day what’s a little dirt on the floor amongst friends?

No, in fact technically I’m the only person living in here. I’m not even referring to all the people living on my floor. Instead I mean the unwanted ants that have come fully installed in my apartment. They’re no friend of mine.

They’ve robbed me of my sanity and I am now killing them in the masses. There is so much Lysol on the counter that any food that so much as touched the surface has been obliterated. In fact even the memory of food having ever rested on the kitchen counters has been wiped clean. I have no idea what they’re eating. The floor perhaps? Dusty linoleum?

Those sick bastards.

They are however smart little things. This is full out psychological warfare. For example, sometimes they like to walk over to the living room area where there is definitely nothing to eat - just to taunt me. To tell me they’re running the show. They go where they want to go.

I’m beginning to question the balance of power in the animal kingdom. As humans we’ve thus far been assuming we’re at the top with our superior intellect. There may be more than meets the eye and even the seemingly common and insignificant ant is really a force to be reckoned with - something actually along the lines of a trained war machine, with tact and loyalty to the colony on par with any seen in our own history.

I should probably cut down on the Raid and Lysol to preserve what I have now discovered is a sensitive balance of power in the animal kingdom…not only that, but the fumes seem to be getting to my head now...

Time is an Invention

Perhaps I am a fool to believe in signs. To assume the sight of a white butterfly means I’m being missed. To see ordinary coincidences as something more, something with purpose. Nevertheless, it is this foolishness that lends informal philosophy to my every day.

My reliable watch has done something entirely backwards and after a day of overcoming this betrayal, I now look into the matter to extract a higher meaning.

My brother gave me this watch as a rakhi present in exchange for a thread around his wrist and a promise. And today this dear, sentimental possession has extraordinarily decided to let the number 6 go off to pursue his interests. The number 6 subsequently took his self and transformed into a 9, on the glass. Leaving a shadow of his former self behind and fulfilling his destiny to move up in the numerical hierarchy.

Oh little 6, what have you done?

Clearly, 6’s destiny is tied up in my own. His short but momentous journey is a wakeup call. The 24 hours of my day are structured, scheduled and largely spent worrying about the lack of time and the surplus of things to be done. Rushed. Hurried. Fast forwarded life.

Enter: ‘6 to 9’ serving as the proverbial ‘flower to be sniffed along the way’; essentially, a reminder to smile at life. To pause and see the life in the minute. To stop worrying about what time it is and to focus more on what is happening in time.

That, or, August 28th is coming up and maybe someone should do some shopping in exchange for a ladoo.

‘I do not like green eggs and ham’

Lettuce and I have thus far had a love/hate relationship…today I resolve to make up my mind about lettuce, to judge its place in my life - to edit or appreciate.

The problem with lettuce is that it’s one of those things that are never really questioned but simply accepted without doubt. Subway doesn’t even ask you if you want lettuce- everyone gets the lettuce, copious amounts even. We may only get 1 ½ tomatoes for 6 inches of sandwich; but to refuse the lettuce would be socially unacceptable, it would draw the types of looks ordering a veggie burger at mcdonalds does (er…pre-‘healthy’ options campaign).

No one questions the mundane. However, staple lettuce may be, it gives me strong vibe of uselessness…sort of like pennies, they’re there, they’ve always been there but really I could do without dealing with them. Although compared to lettuce at least the cent serves a higher financial purpose.

Back to lettuce. I agree its appeasing to the eye…it gives a sandwich a vivacious healthy looking color, it makes a salad look like a real meal by adding bulk. But in all honesty has no one ever noticed that lettuce doesn’t even taste like anything…if nothing had a taste, it would taste like lettuce. It doesn’t even have a smell and it has no texture whatsoever…it’s elusive. And elusive almost always travels with its buddy- bad news.

Ive tried numerous varieties, I’ve given it 22 years of chances…but seriously it has not only failed to impress me, its downright disappointed, what with its going bad within a few days of purchase. Not only is it nutritionally defunct, it’s difficult to work with…involving careful tearing and unfolding for washing. A serving of lettuce has 10 calories…surely I burn that many and more just trying to get it out of its wrapping, and peeling out the non-ugly leaves and then washing out all the crevices.

Yes, I’ve decided. I definitely don’t want lettuce anymore.

A successful moment of life editing?

Med school 5,890,726 : Me 2

Once again I find myself in a battle of wills. Somewhat like that which I experienced with Giant guy. My nemesis in the library. Who had the uncanny ability to always sit in my study area and then to proceed to be loud.

Sit loud. Walk loud. Shuffle papers loud. Throw his highlighters loud. Pick them up throw them down again loud. Rearrange them.

Rinse. Repeat.

I never did pluck up the courage to say, ‘Giant guy for the love of God have mercy and stop breaking my sanity.’ No. Instead I found a secret room to study in.

Only to one day find that giant guy also ‘discovered’ the secret room. And that was the end of on campus studying.

This battle is a little different. Its one I knowingly threw myself into. Knowing that it would be a long uphill struggle. One that I chose to face. One requiring a good deal of self sacrifice. One taking everything out of me and then coming back to demand some more. A face constantly full of dirt and hands stuck with thorns.

Enter the real Giant Guy: med school.

Although some twist of fate involving my 5 year old self’s meeting one fantastic pediatrician, a consequent purchase of a fisher price stethoscope and an inspiration has brought me here, some days I do wonder if I’ll make it in one piece to the other side.

Granted I’ve got all my highlighters in a row. And the papers have thus far been shuffling in all the right ways. I do wonder when a 4.30 alarm will make me throw my shoe sized ‘phone’ across the room. When one more picture of a goiter will send me screaming out of the lecture hall. When I just won’t care what the gram stain of staph. aureaus is...err...wait too late on that one.

Frustration and some serious exam induced PTSD aside, I’m going to plug on. The dream is there. The will is there. The middle bit full of torturous grueling labor is all that’s left to fill in. That’s all.

And the days that it gets really rough. There’s always Grey’s to bring the inspiration back.

'Hello. What's this?'

This has been in my hallway for about 3 months now. I don’t know why it's there or who’s left it. It has however lent some purpose to my life…I now use to figure out when I’ve reached my floor…unfortunately there are no numbers in this building we’re labeled by letter…this backwardness is in itself left to the pondering of another day.

At the moment this stack of wood is occupying my curiosity. I am inclined to just build whatever it is for the poor bloke who left it there. Quite obviously someone got frustrated by the project, separated all the pieces and left them in inappropriate places to deter it ever reaching completion. Maybe if it’s done they’ll take it away.

I think its bits of desk.

It could be worse…I could have that evicted toilet that’s sitting out on the 4th floor.

The smell of summer

It smells like eggplant in my apartment. I’ve never bought an eggplant in my life let alone cooked one. In fact until the age of 8 I lived under the misconception that eggplant plants like the one my 3rd grade teacher had us pot and take home would grow eggs…as an egg plant should.

I have no neighbors and the giant upstairs isn’t home. Maybe the smell is in my imagination. Whatever it is, it’s making me feel like I’m back in my grandmother’s (bejee’s) kitchen.

Every summer, all of us cousins on mom’s side would stay over at my grandparent’s. My bejee has a ridiculously huge garden full of all the ‘punjabi’ vegetables, the majority of which none of us were fans of. But, none worse than the eggplant.

Every few days the eggplants would be picked. Giant, ugly things that smelled horrible and tasted even worse. My cousins and I would sit down for lunch and pull faces and attempt to find new ways of covering up the taste while ignoring the fact that when it was cooked with the skin on it looked like squishy slugs.

We were grateful; I imagine that my bejee cooked that eggplant with the best of intentions - hoping we’d grow tall and ‘hearty’. Needless to say I didn’t eat enough of it to reap those benefits.

I did however laugh more at that kitchen table then anywhere else in the world. So, even though the eggplant had to be swallowed down with enough water to give us major stomach aches afterwards, I don’t think I’d go back and change a thing.

Damn it. I know why I smell eggplant.

It’s homesick Sunday.

'J'

My greatest fear you ask?

Forget heights. Forget dogs.

It’s the fear of my computer crashing. Well…ok it’s in a close tie with swimming in lakes and oceans.

A recent accident involving the uprooting of my ‘J’ key, led me to 5 minutes of anxiety and panic. My heart may have stopped for a fraction of a second and I most definitely forgot to breathe. In short, sympathetics shot through the roof.

There was a time when the life of my computer was not tied up to my own, when I could deal with my entire C drive’s deletion. A time, when I did not think of its presence as the 2nd occupant of this apartment. However, a series of unfortunate circumstances involving a glass of water and a fried motherboard left me seriously traumatized.

Once upon a time I too laughed at sci-fi flicks of machines running their creators. Now, I’m the little cartoon that the mechanical arm hoists up by the scruff of the neck. And yes, time and again I let it pick me up and drop me down, leaving me totally vulnerable to its mechanical mood swings and passive aggressive error screens.

Cotton Swab Earplugs

On a small island in the Atlantic palms swayed, waves lapped, the sun shone down.

Following a road past a beach, shining lights, sugar cane, up a bumpy road skipping a school or two.

Along a dirt path…in a place well past its glory days….an apartment boomed thunder.

No lie.

That can only be thunder. No human being could possibly make that kind of noise. It must be an act of nature herself. She has left the flower blooming and hurricane brewing and descended upon me…as I’ve no idea what I’ve done to deserve this…let’s work it out.

I seem to have a solid streak of bad upstairs neighbors. All of which seem bent upon striking my sanity down. I do not know who these people are. I do not know what horrible twist of karmic obligation has landed them above me. But there they are.

It all began with the piano player. This man refused to learn new music and was intent on perfecting pounding out the same 2 songs dawn to dusk....but more specifically when I seemed to be in a particularly good spot of focus. I would recognize the sound of his piano anywhere and to this day should I hear it I will cringe and cower.

Then came a couple with a Chihuahua; the husband was a fan of jumping rope in steel-toed army boots from the sound of it. And every day at 10pm the Chihuahua would do laps in what could only be micro-rollerblades.

And now I’ve been graced with a giant who stomps around crushing small animals under his feet, dragging his club behind him. I’ve actually taken to moving my laptop and myself out of the room he’s rumbling over in the fear that he will one day soon fall through the ceiling and there will be a big hole, a big mess and giant in my living room.

I would go upstairs and try to resolve the issue…but what am I suppose to say…please stop making odd noises and walk quiet. Someone somewhere seems to think I need to learn some patience. I’ll take the hint. But I won’t give up hoping that the last furniture rearrangement marathon upstairs was the last.

A sunday feeling

This about sums it up...

'Homesickness is a bit like seasickness. You don't know how awful it is unti you get it, and when you do, it hits you right in the top of the stomach and you want to die.'

-Roald Dahl

Music Pack-rat-ing

I think it’s time.

I think it’s time for me to call in some help and have the really horrible music on my computer deleted. The kinds of songs that I always skip, the ones that actually make me cringe.

I can’t do it.

Call it a weakness of will but, every time I try, I end dwelling on the idea that at some point I may NEED to hear that song. Dwelling leads to doubt and doubt leads to avoidance.

Shit music stays.

I have no qualms about getting rid of other things- donating clothes, tossing receipts. There are no secret spaces here, full of ridiculous things like porcelain figurines or stacks of candle making kits and boxes of pipecleaners (for elaboration of concept watch that show on TLC).

The root of the problem extends further then my belief that I may one day have a mad urge to hear ‘Tangerine Speedo.’ I am certain the problem must trace back somehow to the fact that I cannot carry a tune and my singing is atrocious. Thus, I am compensating for lack of musical talent by accruing copious amounts of real bad music.

Or maybe one day I will really NEED to listen to ‘Stranger is danger’.

White Spiders

Yes. The lizard phase is over. The what-the-hell-dead-upside-down-cockroach-looking bug phase is over. Even the black bug on amphetamines phase is over. It appears it’s now time for the white spider phase. First there was one, yesterday there were two, today there are three. I may not know my math (or maths) but I can tell exponential growth when I see it. What are they even doing in my bathroom, it is by far the most boring place in this house. I must admit that I am awed by their extreme speed and agility at avoiding my chappal. But why waste all that talent in the bathroom with nothing to do except look invisible amongst the white tiles. Maybe its not part of the grand scheme of wearing me down one bug species at a time. Maybe I shouldn’t take it personally. Maybe they just like hanging out where they feel like they belong. I have news for them…they don’t belong. Off to crush some spider self-confidence.