When the rains come down on us,
every June I sit down and I wonder
if this is just a cycle of God's earth
or is it me who makes the sky weep.

Oh I am not self absorbed
I know the science behind it , I do.
The water from the oceans and rivers
and the sun heating up our green earth.

Then it pours down upon us from the skies,
and we rejoice for this great kindness we earned.
Plenty plain and boring that notion I find,
and hence this thought comes to mind.

Can I, just one little person of no great influence,
be the reason why the sky is sad and grey and weeps.
I have the blues you know, sometimes more than others,
and when I do I wish for a rainbow across my window.

But I have to wait, for summer and beyond, 
to see those colors that I know I so want.
And I wait, and I wait and I long for it .
Sometimes I say a little prayer too,real quiet.

No cotton candy, no polka dots, no amount of ribbons,
not Clark Gable or even James Dean bring me a smile.
Yes I'm a girl and the idea of a romance I do fancy,
but why oh why do these blues wont let me be.

And then I ask for my rainbow and I wish upon stars,
and I close my eyes and try to imagine really hard.
That my rainbow is right outside my window sill,
and when I put my hand out, its colored all blue,green and yellow.

And then when I am just about to give up,
on shaking off the blues and on my rainbow.
The calendar is through 12 pages and June is here.
The grey skies bring me this sense of joy and happiness.

And when the streets are curtained behind umbrellas,
I run out on the bridge with no rain coat or rubber boots,
in my polka dress and sneakers, jumping like a lunatic,
happy that its finally here, my rainbow of waiting for a year.

So I'd like to believe, that I had a little something, 
to do with all that color showing up in the blue sky.
Because with everything,everyone and all of that,
all I ever wanted was it to pour really hard!

A world of your own...

There are a lot of things that we see in our everyday lives that we wish we could keep with us. Either an object of desire, or of beauty, a person, a memory, or a feeling ..... there is often this need to capture, own, preserve and forever hold these instances of time in our hearts or somewhere more tangible. Where you can go back to, just like you go down to your basement, or to the attic, to pull out that old baseball glove, or that raggedy old doll, or an old photo album.... and you always know ,that the next time you want to visit them, these moments frozen in time, they will still be there. Covered in just a little bit of dust, a little bit of nostalgia, a thin layer of age.... but still there.

" Memory is a complicated thing, a relative to truth, but not its twin" -Barbara Kingsolver

The Rabbits hole!

Memory, somehow has this quality of impermanence, of wearing out, of decay if you will... that always makes me feel that submitting my thoughts, ideas, affections, wisdom to memory doesn't do justice to my desire to hold on to them. And yet, that is the only means I have to that end. There are some tricks or practices, to each their own beliefs!, out there in the world that one would think can help you hold on to  or re-visit these fleeting moments in time that you want to preserve. Hypnotism can take you right back to that instant in time, or so they say. And then there are memory tricks that you can use to keep things fresh and real in that enormous labyrinth of information that we carry around every single day, all of our lives.

Holding on.... hmmmm, I personally sometimes struggle with the idea of holding, keeping, retaining,having and harboring. It inevitably makes us sound like hoarders, collectors or worse like someone who is incomplete without the things they possess, someone who is incapable of letting go. Its a very anti climatic thought , this one I just put across, especially when we are who we are because of where we have been and is that not a function of memory? To know where we've been.  A very unromantic idea then waltzes into my head, unromantic because it thrives on practicality, logic and most definitely always on the truth.... and not a glorified, exaggerated idea of our wants, desires and dreams. And it is "wisdom"!

If we learn what there is to learn, from every experience, every encounter with another, every exchange with another being, place or thing...... wont that experience have fulfilled its purpose by way of enriching us, not in terms of the pictures, images, feelings that we carry in our heads or hearts.... but in terms of leaving us with something, that has made us learn something. Something of value, for our life, and those around us. And is that not wisdom ?

Having a dream, of a time to come or a time long gone, is a quality that is by far the greatest sanctuary that the human mind has known..... a place away from the right now, a place that has haunted us, a place that has encouraged us, that has kept us safe, or given us hope. A characteristic that is probably at the center of everything that makes us who we are.... and is in the same measure capable of bringing us to our knees, and showing us a side of ourselves which we never imagined to have existed.

I am not much of a thinker, and in that way I feel blessed, because things can come and go and I am still where I was before the event .... emotionally speaking that is. But I cant imagine how those, who dwell in this sphere of our minds, where everything exists only because it is a figment of their memory or imagination.... deal with things. And I say that only because, even though I am not a thinker, I have faced many a times, this dilemma... of not knowing where to draw the line between the real and the imaginary. It must be difficult to deal with whats outside and real, when you are not sure of what is real and not on the inside. Is'nt that cause enough for a clash between your own faculties??

Memory and imagination, I have gone ahead and added two variables to this equation! I do apologize ..... I guess, our minds have a way of revealing things to us. A journey is thus just with one constant, the starting point..... where you will go, well that still remains a function of the actions, the course you take as you journey on. Choosing to stay with what is real, what is enriching, what is in fact a safe flight from our plain of reality and back ..... that is a choice, a question, a journey and for some a struggle.

Here is to the adventurous who journeyed just so far and brought back with them wisdom or stories, the frequent flyers who take leave to that land often and come back safe, the brave who made it far beyond and back and especially to the weak ones we lost to the other side. Where are you drawing the line ?


Just another Story... untold!

And then there was no more left , other than what she saw in her room.... an almost empty bottle of rum, a half burnt cigarette  lying no more than a foot away from her and about twenty cigarette butts in the ashtray, her clothes on the floor.... an open closet which was so full of color.... that she felt repulsed by it. She got up, wobbly on her feet and walked till the mirror.... what she saw, should have shocked her, scared her, shaken her..... but all she felt was .... pity or may be it was nothing at all. Her neat little bun was undone and made her look like a deranged killer straight out of a bad movie, her mascara had left stains on her cheeks and her face, there were traces of a bright pink shade of lipstick on her lips, which were dry.... as dry as a dead,withered leaf , fallen from a tree in the dead of autumn...... she stood there in her black Chemise, one bright yellow stiletto on her foot, the other one she couldn't even be bothered to go look for. In fact, she could not be less bothered about life at all . Another Friday night had come and gone by and she had drunk till thy kingdom come, till all her senses had deserted her and she had left for a place of.... not knowing, not comprehending, where they did'nt have a place...her senses that is, a place where she did not have to use her head at all.
Another Friday evening that she had wanted to go home and sort out the storm that would hit her every Friday afternoon..... and like every other Friday since the last one year, she had ended up... going about town, with friends, co-workers, acquaintances or whoever would care to give her company .... drinking , dancing, coming back home, drinking more and passing out.

Still staring at the wreck she saw in the mirror, she felt she was looking at someone else..... anyone else but her, she was the prim and proper mumma's little girl.... who always combed her hair back, always tied them in a neat high pony, wore light pink dresses, light yellows or some other plain Jane, good girl shade. Someone who never raised her voice, someone who never spoke ill of anyone, someone who trusted blindly, someone who believed that life was going to be just wonderful. And here she was, a wreck, a quitter, a raging alcoholic, a nicotine junkie, anorexic, poor lonely girl ..... with clothes piled up till the roof in her house, shoes bursting out of her closet, no money in the bank, and a foul smell from the smoke that emanated from a burnt out dream in her heart... that refused to leave her.

"When did I get this jaded?" ... she thought to herself, " When did I give up on hope? When did I stop smiling? When did this life turn into this.... this, lonesome, unhappy, miserable mess ?" .... even though she was saying the questions out loud, she didn't want to think of the answer.... so much so that she turned around and walked into her bathroom.

About an hour long shower later, she stepped out, made herself some coffee, popped a few aspirins to rid her off the throbbing she could feel in her head..... "Sigh!! another hangover." , she said to herself.
She finished her coffee, put on a pair of khaki's a white shirt..... and it was hard to find, in that wardrobe , which she had stocked with bright bold colors of all kind, to hide the lack of them in her life behind. She picked up her handbag,her camera and walked out of the house .

It was a bright day outside, it was a wonderfully lovely spring morning. She was glad that she could still smile with the sun, at the sun, for the sun..... even as a little girl, she had thought that, the great big ball of fire in the sky was a friend, and she knew from then on she was always going to be a happy sunshine , morning girl. Lost in her thoughts she walked through the San Francisco Bay area Flea market ..... like every Saturday morning. She loved that flea market, all the used things she felt had a story to tell..... a story of who they use to belong to , of a love that no longer lived or at least of a love that had gone far away for some reason. She felt that she belonged there, just like all those things, given up by people, who no longer wanted them, or no longer could keep them .... and behind each one of them was a story..... just like her.And she loved capturing those sundry things on her camera.

Walking around, she walked to the cozy little cafe that she had made her second home for those first few lonely months in San Francisco. Jane the nice old woman who owned the cafe, was her mother away from home, the one person who she trusted blindly , with her life, her money, her dog ..Sharpie, and everything else she held sacred. She walked in, and Jane was more than happy to see her, and with one look Jane could tell that She had been drinking again!... "You better stop feeding all that alcohol and nicotine to that thin little body of yours..... you are so young, so beautiful, your whole life ahead of you.... and to think you haven't even fallen in love yet! When I was a young girl in New York, men would lie down on the street for a woman like you..." , " Oh Fran! please dont... not today! I know you love me, and you worry about me.But you don't have to try to get me to quit my life.. that is who I am. But I love you !" ..... She cut Jane off , before Jane could finish her song about, how New York was the place to be in the 70's and how She was not realizing what she was doing to herself...... She gave Jane a hug, and a peck on her cheek ... and Jane shook her head in exasperation, and asked her to sit down and went into the kitchen to make her a coffee.

She took the coffee from Jane, and told her she was going to go out for a walk and come back after an hour or so and they would have lunch together. This was her routine every Saturday. She loved the day, loved spending it with Jane and the people at the Cafe. As she walked out the door, Fran.... that is what She called Jane, because for her, Jane was San Francisco, for no one else in the city meant more to her,... glanced over her shoulder, just like a mother, looks at her child before she leaves the house.

She had barely walked a few feet from the cafe, looking at the clouds in the sky... she bumped into someone and spilled her coffee all over herself. Not seeing who or what it was, She yelled out, "Ohh my God!! would it kill you to look where you're going.... that's a 200$ Chanel shirt that you just ruined!!".... when she looked up, she saw who she had bumped into..... and she froze , her feet suddenly felt like they were made of stone, she could'nt breathe..... she wanted to scream, but her lungs failed her.
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