Crouching Thunder, Hidden Rain

I can smell the rain, and it is hiding in the pocket of a five year old boy, jostled around by two clear, green marbles and a yellow button. And sewed into the hem of a maiden's blouse, rocking in between her bosom and following the swing of her hip, as she whistled a folksong she heard when the circus was in town. It is marching in between the lines of soldiers, in dry trenches and under withered camouflage. It flies swiftly under the wing of the albatross and dances on the edge of the sea-shore.
Did you find the rain? And while you sat in the corner of the room you shared with another, chipping away the wax that had two nights ago melted onto your table in a molten puddle, you saw rain crawl out of an old grey sock. You were quick but clumsy, and knocked over the ink pot letting the blue-black liquid run across the dark wood and drip in infuriating drops to the floor. The colour bled, wrapped itself around the rain, and the blue black mist was exhaled out of the gaps in the weave. There was panic, you had to be quick. 
You couldn't hear the movement, but you felt it travel from the small of your back to the little drops of sweat that dotted your upper lip right up till the root of your hair. You squeezed your eyes shut in the hope that you could trap the chill but then it crawled out of your pores - damp and full of destruction.
I can hear the thunder and it is far away, closer to you, and before the sky can swallow it, it burrows it's way through thick clouds and created labyrinthine patterns allowing some sunshine to stream through.
Did you hear the thunder while you chased the rain? It slipped under your bed, it is quiet and quick, but you are quicker. You caught it in a glass jar and stuck a label with his name on it. You have called him Claude. You have beautiful penmanship, and in cursive hand your L's loop in smooth, long, straight lines.
I looked for it everywhere, you know, in between pages of books and behind the curtains, in letter boxes and shoe boxes and match boxes. Did you know, it rode on the backs of whales and kissed the noses of puppy dogs and danced to the tune of traffic lights - red, amber, green, amber, and scurried along.
The thunder has disappeared and the rain long gone, but there is promise. They will come back, definitely not tomorrow. I am sure. May be next week. I am certain. But come they will, like a victorious army - storm in with pride and noise and applause.

The Way Back Home

One day, when the sun is hiding behind an ashen cloud I will find you and take you with me to the old warehouse. I have been there several times, but how did I get there? 

We have to walk down a muddy road that has no name and cannot be found on the map and it is definitely not close to anything I know, and does not belong to anybody I know. If you are not looking for the warehouse - an old building with yellowing paint that is peeling off in artistic patterns - you will miss it. There are obviously no clues or signboards but there is the hope of finding a traveller who will not have directions, but he will have stories to tell from across the seas and beyond the forest. 

It is beautiful, this warehouse, you may not think so when you see the broken door-knob and window shutters that are hanging off rusting hinges. But that is also because you see only the holes that the termites have left behind and when you touch the wall, the red brick that hides behind the paint, crumbles.

We will go by walk. It is a long walk. But we will carry notebooks and crayons, a dictionary, pens and 2-minute noodles that come with plastic forks. You can teach me rhythm and I will read to you till the evening light fades.

There are days when in the middle of the night, if you lie down in the wild grass and hold your breath, in the stillness you can hear the earth breathing and it is glorious. 

I like to imagine that this is my little secret, but I know it is not. On an old tree stump that was felled a long time ago I have carved my name, claiming ownership. And when you run your fingers along the wall you can trace all the names that have been carved in with shards of glass, sharp stones and pen knives. When I read their names, I see their faces and can tell if they were travellers, or lost or simply searching for something they lost.
Sometimes I dream that I live there with a man. Someone who will play an instrument and sing the blues. He will cook and I will clean and I will write. Poetry and lyrics and novellas and things to do, I will write them all down. We will forget the date and day and count down the days with notches we draw on the wall.
And one day when the sun is hiding behind an ashen cloud, I will find you and take you with me to the old warehouse. I have been there several times and in my dreams I have built a life there with a man who plays an instrument and sings the blues. 

Someone We Used To Know

I lay across the bed from him, his face in mine, separated by a wall of grey smoke. The herb is the healing of the nation, the healing of my lacerated heart. I sank into the navy depth, weighed down by a thousand anchors as I watched him sublimate. The curve of his back arched and he seemed to rise. His face disintegrated part by part and his eyes began to sink into their sockets and disappear into warm wisps of air that was snug and safe in the cold night. He looked celestial in that moment, disappearing from my tangible world and fading into the recesses of my dreams where he belongs. Not death, just a disappearance.
Just like he came, he will go, back to his world of making manic faces in the mirror and finger painting in pastel shades of water colours. It will all be very quiet, the departure that is. May be a tear or two which will be shed in secret, not for the hope of what could have been, and not for the hundred prayers that went unanswered, but for all the beauty that was us.
Good night friend.

And When We Talk

He said to me...

Mrs. Crookshanks says hi to you. She is my imaginary cat. I lie on her lap as I type this. She cut her paw nails last night for me. She is worried that I may forget her some day. Deeply. She is not married, she just likes the prefix after reading about Mrs. Dalloway somewhere.

She is asking me to pause everything, buy a small flat or even a terrace-room, become financially independent, get a huge, comfortable olive green couch and lie on it and watch movies and tv all day with her. She wouldn't like a flat screen. She wants the big box to be there so that the tv feels real like her. She wants an old school telephone that goes tring tring and an answering machine.

We would do all this when I go to sleep now and perhaps on some windy winter day three years later. Sophia and you are welcome anytime. She'll prepare fish curry for you and I'll make you some coffee and give it it to you in an aana pictured mug that we bought you last night after reading all you wrote.

And I replied...

I love it! I see it in my head. There will be a thick rug, the colour of sunset, in a corner. And three, large, mismatched cushions with hippy patterns. One of them have a large coffee stain from the last time you had me over and I broke the pot. It's still there.
The cactus sits on the sill, alone. You've been meaning to get Eleanor a partner. But can't decide between a fern or another cactus. The only time she gets company is when you go to the window with your morning coffee. But the view below distracts you, and you watch the World come to life from your corner. And you smile, like you know a dirty secret.
I'm not quite the cat person, though Mrs. Crookshanks is lovely. She is a wonderful cook, and makes sure she uses generous doses of tabasco. Just the way I like it.
I'm on the bus back home, and I have the window seat. It rained all day, yesterday and today, and tomorrow. And the water drops on the pane have made a pattern. And when the light shines through it does a kaleidoscopic dance. I wish I could bottle it up to show you.
Isn't Sophia lovely. Send me your postal address.

Changing Pavements

Eternity. That's how long it has rained and drizzled and sprayed and sprinkled. It is a grey day but it also is a happy day. From the warmth of where I'm sitting the world is poetry. But of course, from the warmth of where I'm sitting, it's easy to be poetic.
The rain has become a drizzle. The windows are freckled with a gazillion drops. And when I try to look out, my view is distorted by the hundreds of tiny fish eye illusions they create.
I try to count them, but they outnumber my fingers and toes. So I refresh and start afresh, but my fingers and toes are still outnumbered.
Trees have lost leaves, and wholes have lost halves . If you ask me it is the season. Autumn brings with it a need to shed the old and grow the new. Play-lists will change, new wallpaper and curtains, long locks will become short crops, even your bathing soap changes - classic menthol remains classic menthol.
Somethings never change. And some, will take a part of you with it while on its way out. You revel in that space it leaves behind. It's the warm afterglow of closure. It's like the poetry around me right now.
And when you're home and watching the rain from under the warmth of a patchwork quilt, you realise - the void has been filled by the plain Jane wonders of your distorted world.

A Little Dream

Last night I dreamt I climbed up a jungle gym, hooked my legs on the bars and hung upside down. I saw the world upside down and it was beautiful.
There were cracks in the earth, and they spelled your name. My eyes widened, as the blood rushed to my head. I trembled with delight, and in that moment of perfection I knew such happiness.
I distinctly remember a light summer breeze, I also remember thinking it was strange because it is monsoon, you know. The air smelled strongly of peppermint and slightly of warm sweat, and I swung to the marching tune of a brass band. My fingers tried to clutch at something intangible and I struggled so hard to find it even after the dream was over. And now that the dream is over I feel rather hollow, like I left something behind. 

The Window Seat

There are things that make me happy, and some more that make me sad. But if I had a seat by the window everything would be happy, sunny mornings, even on melancholic, rainy evenings.
If I had a seat by the window I would write an ode and dedicate it to every bird that came to rest on my sill. And if I had a seat by the window I would keep count of the leaves on the trees and name every single one of them, so that they were never lost.
By the window I would sing for weary passers, and watch the rain pour down as it does right now. Everyday would be Versace and Armani even if it was only gunny and old paper bags. From my window I would dance for the marching band and follow the flight of the bumble bee. All for that seat by the window.
And when life would be a kidney stone I would slide through the crack in my window. And walk barefoot on the roof. And when life would truly be pustular I would simply sit on the sill and let the sunshine carry me home.