Release
like the foreign worker who, having spent six days of every week, fifty one weeks of every year, building for a country that is not his, listening to languages that are not his, but whose greatest pleasure comes from talking every Sunday in his native tongue for hours to any relative and friend in Dhaka who will listen, to release his repressed Bengali at a dollar a minute, no matter the cost, who,
like the repressed lesbian kissing her first girl after a string of boyfriends, and is perfunctorily surprised to find she likes it much more, because girls don’t merely stick it in and slop around but take their time with her, and she knows now, from a kiss alone, that irrevocably, and uncontrollably, she has to be, the mystery ends here, no matter the cost, who,
like the seven year old in his first week of school, is afraid of teachers, people he calls monsters, as they are very big and scary and always demand to know if his shoes are white, if his nails are clean, if he’s brought his consent form, like it matters at all, and he finally manages the courage to raise his hand, to ask in a meek voice, if he can go to the toilet, there where he swears to never again take Ryan on in the challenge of drinking three cans of Coke at a go, no matter the cost, who,
like the wage slave on her night out after years in the office, is relieved to find the bar to be the same as when she last left it, in 2001, only that the prices of the drinks have risen proportionately to her income, so has the number of suitors (men and women) taken on an inverse relationship to it, and she realizes she is now 28, though last she checked it was 2001, and once in 2003, so after a few rounds of whisky she gets groovy, at the time of the night where whisky is now called ‘happy juice’, determined to have fun for a change, no matter the cost, who,
like me, is relieved to find release, release from the spell of old, from the bright lights and other excesses, from the daisy chain of ex lovers of ex lovers who are now each other’s new lovers, from the endless chain that swears they love you, truly, really, but not really at all, but now finds greatest pleasure in holding the hand of the one I said I loved yesterday, though I already meant it everyday before yesterday, in sitting here writing, as she sits here sketching, admiring her with the silliness of the first flush of love on my face, knowing that I am, in far too many ways, as a woman reborn, in a motion picture where I provide the words and she the pictures, set to the soundtrack that is ours, and ours alone, and I leave this dangling without a full stop because that’s just the way it is, no matter the cost
- Posted by popagandhi at 03:07 pm
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you really write well. *hats off
congrats. :) here’s to you (two).
i love this
to the slow canvas and the artist with whom the painting presents, I wish for you a palate rich and true :)
i love this.
esp the last bit.
in all originality i say – me too, i love this piece
Love.
very very good
Well written indeed. It was a nice entry to read. :)
Gah! Stop making me realise that I have a soul! (puts hands in ears and goes “lalalala”)
Now it is me or you adjustd the contrast of those ciggie butts? :}
pssss…click. click-click
Poignant delight. Can’t get enough.
U write best when u write abt love
[...] Mr Miyagi admits that he is a late developer in grasping English language while Adri writes beautifully in it. I admit there are misgivings in my grammar but I’ve always been fascinated by [...]
beautifully written, i will definitely buy the song if you are ever a songwriter.
Very nice, Adri.
That was beautiful :)
I blog. You write.
Times like this, I feel like shutting my own journal down.
Curses
amazing! fantastic! sincerely, i love ur pieces of writing! would like to know u better =)
haha, miss k must have taught you well. so well that this post is so well written.
I absolutely love it.
i like.
[...]For those of you who were asking who she was and why she was so cool…[...]
i think i am in love…
with ur writting…
poetry in paragraphs…
... the reason why we read blogs.
(in the spirit of the passage)
like the outsider who returns to his host country to find in the hurry of Asia what was once familiar is now unknown, who once walked those streets with friends and lovers now lost save to memory, turns off the main boulevard onto a side alley anxious to see if the place of respite and caffeine where cats steal flowers has endured the hurry, smiles, into the corner table where he sat so many times so long ago when he was young and stupid, finds solace just being there as he was though now he is just older and stupid still, who remembers what was lost to time and space, no matter the cost, who
(ps love the butts, maybe add some spilled coffee grinds?)
boggle
nice. hardly the word but, nice.
I like your profound simplicity and sincere, heart-felt words. Think I’ve become a fan of ur stuff… carry on writing, it’s what keeps us human.
looking forward to more pict UR es..n your writ i ngs~
Do people come for the pictures or for the posts? Heh heh
[...] Release Tension Redemption Resurrection Excavation (the last two not relevant, but thought I’d put it in anyway) [...]
[...] 750 rupees for the Taj Mahal, and 700 rupees for that phonecall, so I guess we’re even now, and 18 months is dead in just an hour but you know I had to save myself for release. As though the weather agreed with me, it began to pour outside the moment I stopped crying, though that didn’t do any good because all I thought was of you and Palolem. [...]