Varsity Monologues

metropolitan art

2012-01-28T20:44:00.000-08:00

walking through the art. you can almost taste. the strokes of brush. the smell of paint. it is almost real.

pictures: Met Art

twin blind

2012-01-28T20:30:00.000-08:00

the lady beside me. her fingers are numb. she is blind. like her son. fiddling with a spoon.

after a pause. she held my hand. and whispered in my ear. feeling my face. can you tell my little boy how the world looks? i pass a gulp. a silent twitch. okay, she says. feeling herself.

can you tell me what my son looks like? he is beautiful, i say. just like you, lady love. he looks just like you.

he left me when the child was born. who can deal with the twin blind, my boy?

she gasps. hold my hand, i say. my name is T. your love for love. is real Mrs. J. let us give purpose. to this race. one by one. the leaves. the shreds. i will give you the lens of truth. those eyes of mine. but how will i see, the beauty of your face?

them old times

2012-01-21T13:30:00.000-08:00

the temple of love is white today. it has snowed all night all day. i am not a snow lover. by any means. but there is endearment in this home. and it makes me smile. even though i love novelty. i love walking down new streets. i love my familiar sites. the restaurant where i used to eat. the espresso bar where i cried. the book store where i thought of marriage. and sex. and vile addenda. and i love visiting them each time i visit the city. i skip a heart beat, but it is totally worth it!

take two

2012-01-19T13:08:00.000-08:00

leaf upon love. this time. the garden of crowns is afloat on the sea. little lovers on the bay. they tear their souls. their finger nails. like poppy seeds. are painted with oil. dripping, like blood. there was a carnage. that november dusk. that broke my heart. that stabbed your smile. what tears we shed. over electricity and rhyme. the cradles on the farm were ablaze with sapphire. a cold deep whirling blue. spinning like a top. swirling and twirling. round and square. the gown of shapes. and pantaloons of scent. the whiff of dawn. a new tomorrow. those lights have dimmed. that synchrony. the lineage of time. we talked about. is frozen. re-thaw. reuse. recycle.

with the re...there is a pain. an anxiousness. like dolls in a doll house. the artifice of symmetry. resultant. superlative. where did you compare, till you took to the shrine? and shaved your womb. and ripped away the caricature of your nipple-tops. the hair on your skin. is awash in the floods. as you patiently wait. on the turn of the re. the magnificent re. chance two. the re of repeat. one. two. three. one. two. three. those tears have no meaning. dry. dead. rolled into a scoop of indolence. and disability. dis- ability. a-bility. what? you question. where did my pulse fade away that morn. that morn when we drove to the rainbow of necks. grazing past a gelatinous arch. with faces of doom. wake up. wake up. wake up my little pearl. you have lost your sheen. wake up little dove. let us fly with your wings. take two in your home. in your menagerie of lust. in your brasserie of thorns.

take two.

bean town

2012-01-15T07:38:00.001-08:00

sometimes. you just smile. you just stand in one corner. and remember. the times you cried. you laughed. the moon you saw. every night. when you walked back home. thinking of life, and love and cold whims.

it feels like you are breathing again. it feels like home. and you embrace the walls. and breathe even more. faster each time. you want to feel this air. so smooth in your nose. you want to hold the breath. and break the vacuum that built for months. and you break down. overwhelmed with memories of home. you smile. collect your tears. and keep walking.

and the gentleman in his suit looks at you. a beautiful black neck tie greets your presence. questionable belongingness. but you shake hands. talk about life, about the footsteps in the city. the legacy of dreams and dominos. the bridge of hope and the children of fate are asleep tonight. in the city of angels. ringing. trilling. muttering like we used to before.

there is a home. this is a home. which makes you smile. and makes you believe. those lyrics are awake. it's time to play.

divide

2011-12-29T20:59:00.001-08:00

i have come to the conclusion that i am the most socially inept human being there is on planet earth. i go to a bar to meet all my sister's friends. while they watch the basketball game on the tv sets sprawled across the walls, i am thinking about activism. i take a napkin and start scribbling ideas about the united nations' role in alleviating poverty --part of it probably triggered by the book i'm reading right now. it's called A Generation Divided. it captures the elements of activism in the 1960's United States. what stirred our people --the young boys and girls, men and women to fight against racism, communism and big governments.

i will talk to someone, look at someone. smile. toast. drink a glass of wine. constantly thinking about foreign aid. how can we make amends to foreign policy. are slums inherently bad? what is the solution to this haggard infrastructure. who creates change? how do we legitimize change?

why can i just not be a normal human being and enjoy that basketball game in a bar, drinking beer and having a good time with friends? essentially socializing and not thinking about activism. i may have a disorder. i don't know. it's possible --i may have to hunt down my DSM from somewhere. yes, i'm pathologizing myself. story of my life!

yuletide

2011-12-25T08:18:00.000-08:00

coming back to new york city makes me so very happy. every time. it never fails. never. seeing the sister, friends and family. when i walk around, it's as if i feel every step. there is a firm grip. and there is a certain confidence.

one by one, the lights turn on. jingling and sparkling. and there is a silent cheer. in every thing. and everyone. boy, it's beautiful.

i will keep this short and say, a lot has happened this year. lots of downs, some ups. a blend of emotions. never forgetting, yet moving forward. i say a little prayer for all the loved ones who are no more. little angels, today. they sing hymns to man. their voices, volatile.

there is a certain beauty in asymmetry. and i love it. art, for example. or scarves with tassels. bumping to an arrhythmic gait. and on the streets. i will sit and watch. peoples eyebrows. and the asymmetry and asynchrony of movements. so bizarre. so spectacular.

merry christmas.

all pictures by MDL

a-synchrony

2011-12-14T22:37:00.000-08:00

those tales that disappear. are alive. and dead. in a swish. in a swirl. they are here. tonight. peeling skin from my soul.

the soul that traces a lineage of dreams. the dreams that scowl in ravenous hegemony. and the shrill of the timpani. the raga of stars. are asleep on the cradle. of destiny. and continents. submerged. as if your heart were on a flute. piping melodies of beats. the carousel of blood is awake on the clouds.

and you, my gentle pearl. welcome to my sweat. the chariot of diamonds breathe nightingales of dawn. like a glass box. parents of truce. and trance and idiosyncracy. we will pause. and bow our tongues. and knit our veins. one by one, from the yarn of fools. the caricature of breaths will sparkle on my fist. these fingers of tune. these nails of rhyme. this menagerie of lust. these pebble stones of fire. the sweat. the rush. the slush of blood and silken ova. they give birth to the archaeology of dance. the footsteps of tomorrow. this ballet has begun.

in your womb. so organic and pure. i have lost my self. the pout of cotton. the lips. feel them. they are wet with rage. this is a time of confusion.

this november thanksgiving

2011-11-23T19:41:00.000-08:00

slowly. it goes.

shame. joys. tears. sweat. and laughs. for you, diamond wings.

to god, and rust. and the canopy of fate. here is my prayer. my prayer of prayers. for strength, and shame. and the prickle of black. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving. the whitewash and chalk stains are asleep on my walls.

to fingers of blood and allegiance of wombs, i give you thanks. wires emblazoned with the satin of scripts. your palm. where is your palm?

to vagaries of past. teach me your tunes. the failure has failed. and i am dry. but i give you thanks. this pastiche of fates sing serenades to the moon.

holding my hand. and folding my soul. the seams intact. there is a dizziness in the tunnel. the passage. the change. the garden of shadows. where we ran. hands tilted to the sky. sketching. like artists by the lake. shades of the raining bow, smeared across a tracing paper. wrapped around my fist. and tea stains from nine billion miles. sing soprano tonight. so beautiful, my love. i give you thanks. this november thanksgiving.

heart in a box

2011-11-05T16:16:00.000-07:00

what is any more beautiful than a heart in a box? think about that. beating and pumping. in a box.

sit. and dream. what mountains we are yet to climb. what rivers we are yet to sail. what clouds we are yet to touch. the instrumental man. so beautiful in its form. so timid and weak. and a confused paradox. this man within. the inner self. in the world around, slipping away from the allegory of dreams. slipping away each second. like a heart in a box. stuck at the bottom of a dangerous cave. feel the time is running out. look around. shaking heads, violently from side to side. the string of stars on the night sky, like christmas lights. are out of filament. the thread is torn. slipping away. and you breathe heavily. your heart screaming. in side your body. and tears pouring out of your skin. this cloak of shame, and confusion, and harrowing servitude. to life and the beating heart. it churns the life out of my bones.

where do i even start? like a heart in a box.

dots

2011-11-02T23:38:00.000-07:00

often times. re-visit the floods. and watch from the skies a puppetry of souls. begging to please. over and over again. like whores with mandolins. poor. and wretched. and dry. weeping. like magnolia. what is with the magnolia fields on the mountain tops that screams the tune of church-bells?

pause for a minute. and hear the sound of silence. percolating. slowly. gently. through the skin. the veins rush with the vibration of cones. tickles the soul. gentle nightfall with the ornaments. there is a sound of sunset. the color. oh skin of trills, your scarlet scarf is gray with bleach and gravy from the feast. spots, like polka dots, is your fashion of dreams. your scarlet retracts. colors ablaze. on the pastel. this bleach of love and the feast of gore. so circuitous in its meander. the crimson quill is afloat by the sea. bless the fisherman who puts to rest. the carnal mockery of conch-shells. the quill shall rest. frozen from grips and dainty fingers. bleached and preserved for posterity.

the gold on my skin. cold and shy. asleep on my bone. painted with leaves of pearls and silk. and deities and gods. those gods of the temple. where we sacrificed our breath. and gave them to you. spinning on yarns. the silk and spool. of tragedy and rhyme. churning through the air. of dreams. one day. when neruda spake. in the wave-strike over unquiet stones.

the days are gone. the nights are fresh. nibble the black. this black is god. the god of gods smile across the shelf of tomes. in the stacks, where i left my soul.

mind games

2011-10-26T05:56:00.000-07:00

one of those mornings when my mind wanders. back to the little coffee shop in longwood. on those high tables where i have laughed, cried, celebrated and mourned. those coffee cups are long-stained. with finger prints of the dead and the living.

one of those days where my impatience is strong. i become fidgety when this happens, and slightly aggressive. and my thoughts are all over the place. cancer children, heart disease and my misty future, bobbing up and down in my cursive imaginations. i just want to know, i scream to my coffee cup. asleep on my table top. it is pale with patches of blood. bloody rims of the past. my carry over from boston. there is this comfort. temporary at the most, in touching my coffee cup. this time is a drag. how slowly it moves. every second that rolls on my digital screens. i await.

one of those hours when i am tired. this ballet of sun shine and my fabric is long. i just want to know... this life. yet who is the messenger of fatalism? this is the alchemy of fate. there is a reciprocity, however. when the golden gold is washed away. the spirit has been paused, for a few minutes. this gentle relapse of negativity.

to give comfort, i dangle a neck tie against the brown of my book shelf. it is crimson with silver polka dots. wraps so gently across my neck. smooth, slick and slender. creased with my momentary clenches. it plays with the wind. and chimes against my breath. there is a closeness. i do not know how. or why.

still breathing. the edge of my lips are set in order. this morning. touched with balm. they tremble, how. the mind games of time. matter-less at thirty. yet scouring, this october. on tissue tops. i just want to go. i just want to know

dear longwood

2011-10-19T08:48:00.000-07:00

walking around i looked at leaves. some are crimson. some are gold. asleep on the gravel road. there is a constant hum of raindrops today. like so many others...months before, when home was home. and i loved this home. and the marble of flames, burning with souls. from years and years ago. there is a voice of crimson. afloat the rain clouds. and the winds in this city of wombs. pregnant with love and tingling ivy.

i smiled all night. and drank rose. with friends and colleagues. like old times in the crimson parlor. this is not a sophistry of umbilical imaginations. or a terra cotta figurine of intangible dreams. this is a craft of realism and silk. threads that dangle by the canvas of blood work. the uniform. of believers and givers alike. i have missed this smell. of cancerous lesions. and cluttered ambulances. of trench coats on the brookline trail. and the caricature of the charles. so graceful in its meander...i want to kiss the waves. rippling down the river boats. and the rotunda of silver pebbles. i have missed this architecture of familiarity. and the muttering Harvardian at the bus stop with a china rose and handcrafted ukulele. and late night moon gazing on the roof of the library. against the cold cement. that housed millions of tales. scribbles from two centuries ago. may be i was song bird then or a cholera victim. or a cornet player in a court house. when did that soul learn to breathe?

to this city of love. my city of joy. i have missed your rain. like a collage of polka dots. and the geography of lunar trills. vous belle lune. and the house of medicine and granite metaphysics. this cove of electricity and unshaven aptitude. inflames my hunger. my desire. my belief. on this lone spiral, difficult and challenging. i will tread and fall. leap over dams. some day, dreaming in dreams.

metropolitan manhattan

2011-10-16T20:51:00.001-07:00

running through the conservatory garden this morning. i have missed you love. your smell. your leaves. your windows and awnings, stretching down the streets of fifth. i smiled. like a child. it feels so good to be back.

the lady at the Met. the ladies and men. and their observant children. so polished in her charisma. i loved her smack. her lips tightly pressed. delicate pearls trickling across her neck line. she was stern. and glazed at art. the language of paint. and motions of hands. this is an orchestra of finger work and acrylic. the statuettes in the hallways are blazing in the sunshine. the marble so white. the alabaster so sweet. the graphite so grey. and the art students by the master works. sweating and breathing. their language so beautiful.

i read through the little blurb. those pictures, so so very interesting. ohm night. hawks. your use of the phrase, i reveal the dark side of men. the way we are wild, and raw. i love it. a man being comfortable with body. the construction of perfect image in society. has blown away the scent of the table-salt manhood.

tone

2011-10-10T23:02:00.000-07:00

sometimes you believe that there is something out there for you. what, when, where, how. you have no clue. but you want to know. and you want to believe.

i will keep this short.

in this process of tracing futures, i have re-found my faith. in my god and in my heart. lined with a pencil ring of moonshine. emotionally, i am holding up. as much as i can. sometimes i really want to break a glass, or beat my walls. and slide down the paint. the friction was destined. may be. but through all of this, i never forget to breathe. and feel my pulse. and my beating heart.

this is who i am. T.D.L. a twenty two year old boy. believing in crimson and the sounds of veritas. but there is a world out there. with many worries and many nets. with dying souls and bleeding wombs. there is a duty. there is a purpose. may be one day. what if...

to the believers. and dreamers

2011-10-06T23:17:00.000-07:00

to the believers. and dreamers.

it is the season of trilling mahogany. of shadow whisperers and tendrils. and the melody of dreams. the sound. so loud. so crisp. blurs... sometimes. carrying a palm. an arm. and belief. we belong. to the land of songs. to the cradle of yarns. spinning. this spool of crimson and blood.

in my memory of gold. the mist of your cello strings sing harmonies to the moon. a bowl of talcum. so tender and labile. i walk. and walk. there are crystals on my palm. believe. the tune of flautists tonight melt into my soul. there is a cry, by the carnival of doves. i miss you so, little city of pearls. your scape of lands, and tempera of gods are ablaze by the alleyway. pattern of steps and prints of feet, playing monopoly with my soul. my beats are yours, you crimson quill. your care and love. and tenderness of touch. the gardens of faith and psychedelic healers are awake in the congress of death. the glint of your rouge. and the sequin of clouds breathe my breath. come back to my heart.

i will hope. till then. in the canvas of oil. patches of threads and the spectacle of fate. the strength to stand, in this ministry of void.

ruby-bled

2011-09-21T23:42:00.000-07:00

they twinkle in the sky. in a garland of smiles. and i ran up to them tonight. stretching my arms to the furthest i could. tell me what tomorrow says. and the day after. and the day after. this labor stole my waters.

i believe in belief. and the petals of hope. and the lyrics of prayer. of a free mind, and a free spirit. and a free soul.

dear god of pearls, where is the moon? i stole her flakes, like paper-boats on ash. and in the box by my lamp, i grow her nails. sprinkle with love from a canister of doves. freedom. and gold. widowed in this palette of brittle wood. wanton. flames. and flames. what did you burn? flesh. or sand. or crimson turpentine by the howling rivulets?

i pause. a moment. the clocks tick. dali is dead. and alive. and dead. and alive. and alive. and alive. a moment gone. pregnant with fumes from Nazi clay. where did wisdom hide that day? when man killed flesh. holding hands. the realism of imagery tonight is a carousel of fantasies. spinning like a top. on grass. and air. spinning. spin. whirring. whir.

your faith. and belief. and prayers. will be thanked one day. when you ring your knuckles in the sheen of platinum. raw and fierce like bleeding dandelions. one day, when the velvet folds to the anomaly of doorsteps. and your foot prints, i will measure. and smile with the moon. nights after nights. playing cancer gods. infectious? no. succumb. and fight. fight with your fists. make a clutter of rhyme on the dime of your shade. that vacancy of home. homeless with beggars and bangle-sellers, scurrying to the mountains. and to art. and paint. and pastel green. the wax and mush of your vulnerabilities. tangible to my spleen. oh love of loves. twinkle tonight. like diamonds on satin. or a corsage of sapphire. ruby-bled with wisdom.

for truth. what is truth?

oil

2011-09-14T20:45:00.000-07:00

and the rain drops. they tickle on my palm. and i roll my sleeves. little inkblots on my shoulders. tingling. and chiming. in the wind from the coasts. far away from the land of tides.

tonight is the dance of moon gods and rain. and the clouds, they build. like chariots of talcum. soft and brittle. the secret tales of man and rain spill across the mezzanine love. the passion of skins. and the violent crochet of womb and ivory. and in the banquet of pearls, we remember the times. we walked and walked. through pebbles of joy. by the riverside. on a cold evening in june. wine on your fingertips. tingling and shaking. like an anesthetic. the pirouette of dreams.

and as i sat on the bar stool. the wood spoke to my toes. you massage my soul and give me warmth. for they chiseled me to perfection. to please. and please. in silent antipathy. they hacked my limbs. i have lost my saliva. the saliva with which i made love to the wind. and how she danced -the wanton wind. how she danced on my thighs, and caressed my skin. but she is a widow tonight. with a hand that slips the grip of charcoal wombs. the pain has scorched her soul.

for when you are one in this pool of man. without a finger to hold. or a ring to love. think of your paint. the oil of your skin and the race of your beats. one by one, they pave that road of love. the love of desire and the desire of love. and man, and moon and ribbons of rhyme will dissolve into your womb. you will bear fruit one day. for the palm of your tree, those bones of velvet, and the melody of lungs will rise. rise one day to the pinnacle of dreams. when your womb will ripen with poets and gods. and you will cry. with mercy. and rage. and violent lust. your cheeks like rose and hissing periwinkles. your poets will fold. and wind. and jingle. and scream. and screech. and hiss to man. you are the woman of worth.

i believe in your soul. let us hope...

untitled 1

2011-09-01T22:10:00.000-07:00

i am by the bed. and the lights burn. they glow. on my skin. wet tonight. wet with water. from my eyes. heavy with flesh. heavy with thought. heavy with uncertainty. i am tired. burning sometimes. this make believe microcosm. of vaginas and pain. of cancer and love. of tragedy. and the rejects on the alleyway. lined up in the tapestry. of cardiac embroidery. of pumps. and gasps. of drowning fetuses. screaming through the tunnel. of darkness. of hope. i want to see your face. the caricature of your brows. and how they play on the crescent of the moon. jaundiced with turmeric from the night sky. burning. and glowing. in the blackout of the universe. the continuum of race. of racing men. and organic love. plastic on the brow. bending. and twisting. twirling and swirling in the stillness of mid-air. in the blue of chlorine. and the green of bile. smudged. smudged onto your chest. smudged with ten fingers of bones and curls. and pressure. i tremble tonight. and swirl with diamonds on my temple. diamonds of rust. brewing. and smoking. steaming. in the moonlight of a september evening. ribbons curling. and curling. and yelling monogamy. tonight i think of picasso. and degas. and the kiss. the kiss i kiss. on the silk of love. this aphrodisiac of passion. diffusing like vapor. stain. menstruation. and the blood of life. the blood of love. the blood of your womb. veiled in fear. i am coming out of your canal. i shiver tonight. that blood i want to taste. your taste of womanhood. your taste of adulthood. my brain sweats and freezes. embracing the past. this life i have lived. a child of billions. when i was born. when was i born? i do not remember. and i cry tonight. when you say you believe in me. why? why? why do you believe in this orchestra of fate? and watch my hands? as they curl and fold and crease and tremble...in this tapestry of life. i shiver tonight. at the moon. my eyes. are shot. they bleed. and bleed. and bleed. and beat. i feel my heart. it beats so coy. so shy. leaping on my hand as i place it on my chest. my drying tongue.

what happened tonight? this game of tears?

obey

2011-08-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

tonight is the battle of love. picture books and montages of a flowing city. palpitating light. and the cold cursive silk. the city lights are out. but i hear footsteps. painful. a carousel of wax and rain. the charles. the flow of rivers. in a land far away. swirling with the tides of oceans. and the deep soulful cry. i miss your warmth. the misery of deaths. the camaraderie of pastel. the fingertips of muslin. the fabric of disease.

as i sit by the window shades, i cry. and cry. shores by the ocean. i want to feel your flesh. dip my nails in your womb. the temple of hearts. where are you, love child of desire? my mind clogs. wanting you. missing you. your twinge of sexuality. numbing your city maze. the maze where we walked. holding hands on the day you freed your slave. the carnival of blood and indigo sifting on the sky. the sky i miss. the winds and sails of riverside. and the wealth of avenues. the wealth of green. grass and phlegm. ribbons upon ribbons of violet violins. the art calls from the conservatory. and the comfort. of love. of sex. of misunderstood tales. blood from olives. blood from raw desire. stains. so beautiful on my lap. the smell of your breasts. your pleats. you are pregnant with lust. and dreams. of dying lives. we held hand by the pond. and on the rail. your head on my chest. alcohol in your liver. but we sang. and danced. your eyes bloodshot, as if they would bleed. like that of Mary, the mother of virgins. the secret, christian life of your incest. what fun we had by the beach. chasing kites and electricity.

i wish i was there. playing with your toes. but alas, we are apart. distanced with miles and miles of sand and stones.

sigh.

the carnival

2011-07-30T20:53:00.000-07:00

the carnival of cotton, cloud and sugar flakes

tonight is the carnival of wanderlust and pebble stones
i am afraid. the baskets of ivory and golden mist
have crawled the Ganges. or by the hudson
where a lady sleeps. by the park. on the river of dead
her womb aching with eyes. of real flesh. ribboned with haze
of sodomy and incest. a prostitute of gore.
she wanted nails. and breaths. and a violent wrest of milking breasts
tell the world. i am a woman of doom. and i have desires of love.
warm. pulsating. moist. trickling pain and shame.

today is the carnival of colors and bangles.
and pyramids of silk. the dandelions by the riverside
are wrapped in flames. deep pasty yellow. like a smudge
of wax and soft pastel on the window panes. sweaty with the rains.
twinkling and tinkling. glistening. as the trains rumble along
thickets of fantasy. piling up. like bricks of waves. crashing on an easel.
this world of wanderlust. and carnivals.

a sketch of sketch

2011-07-29T21:22:00.000-07:00

a photo montage of steel and clouds. Photo: David Z

you ring the bell. and walk up. your steps on steps. make little cliques on the varnish. it is half-golden. half-brown. and you float on the hand rails. i do not know your name.

but the feel of your skin. on my skin. your tentacles are in fright. gaping eyes hemmed with sweat. little beads of desire twirling on a carousel. on the stripes of your temple. i ache for your touch. you smell like honey dew and cigarette smoke. my eyes on your lips. my fingers on my thighs. who are you, mountain pearl? from the main of maine, you say. first, new england. and then, oh let us be god believers. like shepherds. and crucify our sexuality. in a blanket of mold. there is a god. on the precipice of clocks. ticking. a wave. and tides. pregnant with rage. and feisty hate. for the cuffs and blades. a september morning. remember? when you lost your son. in the pouf of shameless gray crystals. a harrowing cloud. and you split your head. against the wall of flame. in cold cement. by the stroke of brooklyn. for do you say your god took your son? and along with it, his beads of honor?

i will go mad. if by the green and your lustrous whim. you do not place your palms on mine. i will tear a snake of rivulets. spurting blood on your breasts. please. i am begging you. tell me your name. your love of myth and the gentle greeks outweigh the love of man. like charcoal chunks in flames. smoldering to death. hear the heart. beat. and beat. and beat. until you feel a twitch. you will cry. at pointless dreams. and verbal rhyme.

hand me a jar of smiles

raindrops

2011-07-16T20:50:00.000-07:00

see how i dance. my legs. and muscles. and the brown. against the magic of wood. a generous tap. and swirl. like a swivel. or a spiral. like steps. or a stairwell of blue. like a chest of water bubbles. so fluid. it's as if you stand on a marble top. glazed with irony. and watch the saliva. trickle down your lips. treading down. in lumps and bumps. down your curve. of melting face. and by your chin. it drops to void. a space of dust. of dangerous germ. of naked parsimony. of reckless story tellers. who roll their meat. in a voluptuous lull. and a carousing swirl. your fingertips. clenched. to the sound of drums. beating. in concordance. resonating. those sticks on skin are made of wax. of sensuous paraffin. your gentle touch. which gave her joy. your mother. who died of sweat. and seduction. that game of cancer.

this is for the moon gods. your beautiful milk. with patchwork artistry. of shaven bronze or rustic gold. or dazzling silver. the radiance of your flesh. flickering behind rain clouds. the sheet of dust entangles your rhyme. as you dance in the darkness. my nails on your flesh. scratching your breast. i am jealous of your beauty. the architecture of dreams. and the carpet you lay from your tongue to toe. this earth. this bowl of blue. and grass and seed. for across the ferry trails. and fairy tales. and the jargon of desires. the beating heart and eye balls. mascaraed to the crisp of twirling sexuality. is seeking your love. for he forgets. today. yesterday and tomorrow. of your pendulous skin. anemic tonight. you look pale. are you afraid that in a matter of clockwork your shade will gray? slipping away. day by day. second by second. into quiet nigritude. for when the swivel spins. you will lift your face. fair speckles of ivory trills. like a garland of pearls will appear on your forehead. as you unmask the coal that peppers your cheek. this is the time for the holy trinity. or the idols of dawn to talk religion. for when came christ to the cavity of sand? did you make sandcastles out of air? little glass clusters of sheen. and mica. the creator. your creator. my creator. are made from ribs. of your cosmic death. each day. as you lay the leaves of freedom.

beyond the line and the temple of time. there is a porch. engraved is your name in blood from the hounds that destroyed virtue. adam and his eve. where? in the caves of vienna or by the seine or the naked hudson gushing down the tempera of yolk. this yolk. you shameless fool, you stole from the dandelions. yawning with your destiny

pleats

2011-07-09T20:23:00.001-07:00

what green we saw that night. crackling flesh. and red sparkles. exploding in the night sky. spouting lava. of yesterday's freedom. and the trade of the unions. centuries in a shoebox. or a bell jar full of sand. the lights on the scraper are shimmering tonight. blood. dove. sapphire.

and there is a shuffle by the riverside. a merriment of sorts. and a cluster of eyeballs from the sahara. or the valley of orchids. through your merry kaleidoscope, look at the water. pantaloon of the tribes. and naked communism. a botch of justice. you call it order. you deluded idiot. if moralism is the norm, i will be a nomad. and scamper. and slide. and kill your authority. stab your tongue so you speak no more. the castles of tomorrow, in your city of dreams, will crumble in the quake. and take with it a million arms. those arms that gave you shape. in the nature of your holiness. in the god you believe. in the rhyme of rhymes and the lace of lace. and twirling jaws of seamless galaxies. what imagination shall swell. through man and womb. and your jittery lips. cold vagina. selfish sexualia. the mother of smoke. like ointments. the filthy grease. you call it balm. to calm the calm. and selfish self. twilight of lights. stitch. and sew. and hem. this nonsensical rhyme. the lyrics of rhyme. as they did by the shelves. in charcoal and oil. smooth as jazz. so raspy. so coarse. like saws and blades on leaden leaves. oh the rhyme!

this is your world. of yellow ponds. why yellow you ask? jaundice. they have lost their minds. they have no self. useless bodies that walk around. like empty bowls from the land walls. they cheer the mob. they want to be a hundred souls. compressed in shreds. they are the leaders today. what a spectacle of mockery. go, you say. go. go. impress your lord. oil his loins. impress. your tresses and locks. remember your pleats. and the beautiful smile. you cosmetic doll. of golden degrees. service they call it. oh you helped the roads? the communion of age, which exists by the doll shop? like bangle sellers. how shiny they look. dazzle your eyes. you value at least a hundred. its real worth of one. lovely. it's this world, little pebbles. show your show. even if you are a pauper dying of loss. for in this canvas of breaths, all you need to do. is cast a web of beauty. to knit a spectacle of gold. for if you fail, you will lose. the war will end. no one cares, little pebbles. you have to win.

finger prints

2011-07-02T04:35:00.000-07:00

i keep having forks from that night. K V. when i stepped through the wood, rang the doorbell. it sounded like a cry. shrill. resolute. scary. like a wailing womb. its arteries pierced. and frayed with blue. you took me by my lips. felt my pulse. my racing beats. like violin strings in boisterous cacophony.

i felt your bones, that fierce evening. the shape of your nipples. robust and ripe. what a beautiful brown. like chocolat et lait. and your beaming torso. so symmetrical. a paradise of geometry. the tenderness of your skin. it smiled as i breathed. the currents of red. what crimson rage! your tender touch. silken fingertips. it played with my soul. like gentle hide-and-seek behind mulberry shrubs. with the smell of burning rosewood. and as i lay by you, a whirlpool of imaginings rushed through my eyes. dilated and choking. ready for release. like the gore of labor. the building tense. the rising drone. the merry chimes. and the reeling crescendos. they rise the lilt. to explosive histrionics. as the percussion rings and the violas swell. the cellos squeal with violent romance. and the artist by the lake. jittery with sweat. swirling paint on palettes and the skinless canvas. the easel broke, into a million frowns.

to the colors of sexuality. pray for your art. for yours is one i went to hold. you slipped away. through the sieve of symmetry. the antithesis of emotionality.

for if you love the moonshine, you will fade in thirty...

to you br

2011-06-29T06:53:00.000-07:00

what a wet thursday afternoon it was. little puddles of flesh by the sidewalks. people chuckling. and muttering. and lifting their arms through the water drops. to hail a wheel. to go home. and cry. or heave. or eat. a dream, from across the seas.

it was the time when you and i walked on pebbles and the charcoal of a gravel. by the marble of temples and science. and the dome of grey where knowledge cured man. and on the bridge. and the illuminated wine. how smooth. how frail. like beating skin and flawless silk. that jar of red. the pink rosé. and amber smiles. the green and purple by the pond. ablaze in the night sky. through clouds of haze. and whirring mist of phantom minds. what a beautiful void. what a riveting tunnel. of gentle rhymes and quizzical minds. smiling and joking. like we were born in the womb of sand. a million years ago. holding fists and bleeding sweat. like feeble brows clasping fortune. whether you wrote novellas. or the catechism of breasts. by the sparkling charles or the smiling seine. you will leave the doors. of a greener castle. peeping and peeking through a veil of fear. i have your back. for if you fall, i will lift. as much as i can. with shattering veins and bleeding wrists, i will lift your soul.

for you can smile. when you are married and mother of three. and your ringed mate, your oath-taker, will flee the floods to hear your lyrics. of science and man. and the trickle of raphael. as painted on the tapestry of love.

welcome to the pedestal of dreams.

brooklyn brooklyn take me in

2011-05-14T18:45:00.000-07:00

brooklyn brooklyn take me in. when at first i learned to speak, i used them all to fight. with him and her and you and me and it's just a waste of time.

and the violin rhythm rose. to a room full of cheering people. and a loud sound like a little thud. little Miss A's recital.

and i may have cried. a drop of two of sweet silver. the music may have paused. the viola played. like clapping hands. a jeering pale of lovers.

i miss your voice baby. you died and cried. in your purple cage. on the record bar. while your clasp. my clasp. we were headed south.

one foot in and one foot back. cut the tiles and jump the tracks. the avett brothers. and the mysteriousness of your headphones. what a cold cult.

2011-01-24T09:24:00.000-08:00

even if they lied on your face. and scratched your fist with the rage. and violence of a dead father. you angered at them. and then laughed innocence. you shameless thing. how could you

and then you say those eyes have no patience. while you sipped the cup of liquor tea. and squeezed the death of a lifeless palpitation. a poor soul who has nowhere to go. and is at your utter behest.

and what made me vomit today. was not the filth on their corridor. but the grue of your soul. again you laugh.

city lights

2010-10-20T04:43:00.000-07:00

it has been an interesting past few days. with epiphanies. realizations. goals. excitement. i don't know. a blend of things i'd like to do; i'd hate. a feel that i have lost myself, somewhere in the middle of a vortex of cultures. and i fumble on syllables. and crafty phonetics of a simple language. of the national tongue. of the dainty punctuation of a billion smiles.

i write not for what i have lost. but what i want to retain. of your intelligence Mr D. confounding, in a simplistic way. your wild enthusiasm of the world around. what a sight to watch. i sigh. to myself. in my over-lit manhattan apartment.

while those passers-by scurry away. in a haste. as if their lives depend on their meager footsteps. and the quality of their arms. while i stood there last morning, not in my apartment. but in the middles of the square of times, i smiled at my soul. it felt like home. all over again. and i have missed it all these months. the hustle of rhyme. the buzz of visions. the image of the wall street man. his throbbing heart beat. his mental debauchery. his elegant suit, tailored to perfection. lighting a smile. faux and hazy. for in his mind, he fumbles with fright. at the value of today's might and paper. oh the green! his left arm swings, in a perpendicular swirl. he is gaping at the hands. and counting stars. when will it be five? so i may say. i made a lot of money today. the day was good. but sometimes. the day never came. it slipped away like a feather of silk through the miseries of the forceful clasp. we'll look forward to tomorrow.

and while in illi-noise, i heard those bells. them that i heard. two hundred years ago. in the womb of time. reminding me of a figurine. of slavish life. but i miss your face. and your tumored breasts. the crest and valley of your human wonder. to B and D, thank you for your time.

sigh.

midnight forgery

2010-09-19T18:35:00.001-07:00

for the forty-seventh time. i have failed. my patience. my reveries. ah.

and when i build up those little frustrations. it hurts my conscience. aches in tremor. and passages from a monotone. i used to read them. when i was ten. in a corner by the alleyway. crisp and clear. and yell at the costermongers. oh how dandy they were. and their ivory nails. painted with blood and margarine. beautiful gluttony.

i left you behind. and i do not regret it. at all. honestly. and the more i move away. i feel a warmth. it's right. and i take away what i told you. that tuesday evening by the lake. for you may go. walk out of my life. forever. please.

and remember when you murmured. they want you dead. i cringed in fright. oh what a world. i used to say. and the inflamed beauty.

god is dead. remember how you used to read me the words. from your little rhyme of nietzsche. those are gone. militated against.

twirl your skin and smile your print. i will go away.

friday the third

2010-09-03T14:27:00.000-07:00

as you sigh, and wave at your future. wistfully yet excitedly. it reminds me of many years ago. when i was a little boy. in a sharp design. scratching nails against the marble. at the palace. and my wandered through every pocket of misery. ah. what a disaster unfolded in front of my eyes. but now i am here. across shores. tingling my fingers. in the motion of a beckoning.

and you should know who you are. to whom i speak. like a melancholic bludgeon split my soul in dainty smithereens. and i wait here. every day. across time and temperament.

and i dream of the martyrs. and brave souls. dead soles. scathing pain. and the fleur-de-lis.

i miss you. again. that is all.

midnight tales

2010-08-26T21:09:00.001-07:00

i am writing this tonight because i miss you. like crazy. thinking and thinking about how to make this better. and i can't forget that evening. when i drew my life on the air. a-front your face. and you smiled and choked. and giggled and snarled. and patted my shoulders. with a deep sense of gravity and pride. it made me quiver in pride. in an undeserving armor i was given to wear.

and i miss your heart. and your stoicism. and the pitch of your tongue. and the little scribbles you did on the white. i still have them pinned to my suitcase.

i miss the laugh of passion. sliding beneath your teeth. your determination. and your courage. your bravery of might. your reels of sugary candor. i loved them all. and i miss it.

thank you for your time.

boston

2010-08-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

back on the pebbles. and the dry fields of corn. as i wheel through the lanes, i remember those beauties. and pillars. and tear drops. and laughs. of not so long ago.

and while i sat by the wood. and a sheet of overpeering glass. i have learned from your science. that you are the man. Dr B. and your creativity. has amazed and baffled me. beyond a yardstick you can ever perceive. and as you twirl and twist, your bone of endless energy. i squirm in joy and happiness at your capabilities. and how you pen your thoughts. and gesticulate. your tolerances and bouts of imagination. and raging creativity. thank you for your time. and your syllables.

Dr S. thank you for your time. and your words of the land. i will keep you updated.

Dr D. i'm looking forward to that garland of words. and your strokes of glazy acrylic. thanks for all your help

brookline phobia

2010-08-13T07:46:00.000-07:00

let's say it was around 9 36 this morning -the reason i do not remember the exact time is because i still do not wear a watch; a childhood peeve that i have not quite gotten over yet -and i was strolling down to work in a grey-white striped button-up shirt and tan pants. my dress shoes -i had bought them around seven months ago from a store in vernon hills, IL -I have to add, make a very characteristic shuffle when i walk. i'd like to think it's not my messed up gait that contributes largely to this annoying noise, but i choose to move forward anyway. hopeful, yes. that no one would notice or hear.

however, this morning was an extreme. i call it extreme because i am still baffled, slightly mortified and uncannily whimsical since the event this morning. it's been two hours, almost.

this is what happened. while i am mindlessly walking down brookline avenue, i am randomly stopped by a square african-american woman. i look at her closely; her lips are chattering. she is muttering something to herself in a language that is definitely not english. her fists are clenched tight enough to crush the head of a five-year old child. and she's awkwardly checking me out. i am slightly uncomfortable, so i return the (dis)favor. i will not go into details. but most noticeably she's got curly brown hair, dyed awkwardly in patches of blonde. she's wearing an orange-rimmed pair of spectacles. she has a bible in her purse -it is jutting out through the tip of the zipper. and she's overweight. after a minute of checking each other out -she spits at me and tells me. your walk reminds me of that ghost my husband had. i thought it was gone. but now you come.

walk away from me, she says. tell me you're sorry. i knew i would hear you someday.

i paused. said sorry. and left.

ramble

2010-08-09T19:45:00.000-07:00

you make me think all the time. and sometimes when i look out of the window. i see your face. as you wed. and reel. and dream. and push. and gape. and trump those mocking birds. out of the tall turrets -brick-built and bent.

all i want to say today is thank you for all that you have said. expected and unexpected. i'm in a weird mood today. my acceptor died. and my eyes hurt. my lips tremble as i scribble this on my blog. my mind wanders. back and forth. through and through. it's an uncanny feeling.

and i'm hearing the canon. yet again. in this cold dampen room, illuminated by rain and tear. i hear a faint whistle in the background. i miss you.

this lazy sunday afternoon

2010-08-08T13:06:00.000-07:00

this is a conversation that took between a young girl, probably fourteen or fifteen years of age and her mother, a frail lady -probably in her mid or late-forties, with blonde-brown permed hair. the young girl, let's call her Ms L, is caked with make-up, on a sunday afternoon at 1:30 pm. in a food court. she is wearing thin heels, which elevates her height by atleast an inch or two. mother M, is in frayed sandals. she is wearing a ring on every finger of her left hand. and has a very eccentric smile. she breathes heavily, as she whispers some random syllables to her daughters ears. followed by a yawn, where she half-stuck out her tongue and made a click sound as she paused. she patted L's back for no obvious reason. and decided to have a serious conversation, i guess. in the Subway line, at the Galleria.

I am standing behind the two of them. waiting for my onion-flavored chicken teriyaki sandwich.

M: Hey sweetie, so I have been meaning to ask you for a while. But yea... what exactly is text messaging?

L (pretends to have not heard what was asked) : mamma, did you order your sandwich yet?

M (clearing her throat): yes dear. i did. i got a meatball footlong. how about you? oh yea, i was wondering, what exactly is text messaging, can you explain it to me a bit?

By this point, I could hear L release a mild grunt.

L: well instead of talking, people just message. What do you want me explain mom? stop embarassing me.

M (extremely nonchalant): oh but i'm sorry honey. do you mean, by this service, you can send me something i can read?

L: exactly, now let's go.

M: But honey, i'll miss your voice so much. i didn't know you could not hear the person's voice if you text messaged. oh my...what a pity...(fading) don't ever text me honey, i'll miss your voice, and.... ....

I was done by this point. L was dragging M outside the mall. that's as much as I can recall.

a morning

2010-08-04T20:41:00.000-07:00

as i write this, i continue to feel nauseous and loopy from the occurences of this morning. it was a spinal tap, formally known as lumbar puncture. and it definitely is one of the more painful things i have undergone thus far. i make it a point to say, one of the more physically painful. emotionally, well yes -pain just doesn't randomly evaporate into thin air. but i had a weird feeling of joy and pain. combined. it was strange, yet satisfying.

i heard that the girl, a cowering fourteen year old, had terrible metastasis. she has a 90% chance of mortality despite transplant. so i'm not sure, if i should go ahead at this point. may be i should wait and give it to omeone who has a higher survival rate. i'm confused. and sad. and despondent. i wanted the little girl to live. oh well.

lab has been going very well. lots of numbers to deal with. people. moods. sprigs. emotions. arguments. laughter. spices. eye balls. fingers. nails. and scents.

and a lot of science

a melody of johann

2010-07-31T17:12:00.000-07:00

and you got me thinking, sir. tapping away, and humming. to the tunes of a voluptuous roar of cello ensembles and quartets. i wanted to be a musician. once upon a time. a concert pianist. and i wanted to live a dream. through my melody. through the cadence and chords of all the crescendos i had once composed. walking into a hall. with a million eye balls. and fidgety heart beats. and i'd swing my head back. and strike the chord. as if my force wove a garland of rhyme. so beautiful and kind.

as a matter of fact, pachelbel's canon in d was one of the first baroque pieces i studied for my diploma in solo piano. when i used to be this little ragamuffin pricking around trinity college. in greenwich. and i remember, how i held the baton. ha, that at the age of thirteen. my naive finger joints trembling to an immature nervousness. and i heaved and sighed. for over twenty-seven seconds. until i raised the wood to the beauty of cellists and fiddlers. crying upon a melody so beautiful. so mellow. alternating between thunderous crescendos and coy diminuendos. the tremelos on the violin. like strumming on silk. and i wept for a while. taking it all in. thinking i was a musician. thinking i could, one twilit evening, conduct the philarmonic in royal albert.

well that never happened. and i didn't listen to the canon till you reminded me. the day before yesterday. and while i ploughed through the archives to listen to the tune. at three o clock this morning. i felt the same. the lingering beauty of d major and semi-tones. the sanctity of matrimony. in the dainty yawns of the columns down at the palazzo. thank you for reminding me B. the music flutters in my soul. and it will, for the next few weeks.

i miss you love. and your dainty lips. and your gentle bosom. and the texture of your smile. i hope you are doing well.

mariage et eccentricists!

2010-07-29T22:26:00.000-07:00

i loved talking to you today. after so many years. since we had spoken. and i don't remember why we turned our backs. awkward, at start. reluctance and a very bitter angst that formed this bridge. you told me not to save lives, one sunny morning up in nottingham. and i remember. my unbelievable rage. because you broke a piece of my flesh.

but thank you for talking today.

it's been a fast few days. i feel like i've been skipping steps. yet trundling. a weird concoction of feelings. i know. and i also heard the tinkerbells today. and oh what a beautiful sight of the palazzo ballroom. elle est belle! and it's funny. because my little great grand mother, got married in a quaint old church in cinnaminson. many years ago. and those stories that i hear make me chuckle and smile. at the same time. and maybe, with this pre-formed association with cinnaminson, i perceive this "palais" as a craft of beauty and genius. under the crease of shy tapestry. a moody whim of dangling chandeliers. an aroma of wine and joy. carven marble and glazy granite. like a chiaroscuro of beauty and hazel elegance. and shimmering goblets. and a chime of melody. laced with drips of molten silk. i'm smiling. all the best to B and L. tous mes meilleurs voeux pour votre mariage.

they used to say, at brick lane, around seventy seven years ago, there used to be a hall of fame. for the eccentricists and dictated narcissists and grouchy old philatelists. and i believe, they used to have some street performers. who earned a name for combing silk. i remembered that today. we used to go there remember? across the river? on the east side of the Thames?

a boston afternoon

2010-07-19T16:13:00.000-07:00

i have never walked so much in my life. in that heat. talking about bikes. in the rain. where i didn't care for the mugginess. and the tiny toads leaping around. on the dry barren straw.

and by the river, when it was dark, we spoke so much about life. scrolling down pages and pages, and scribbles of endless philosophy. oh how i loved the days. this weekend.

thank you. AL.

gordon and the basic sciences

2010-07-14T18:56:00.000-07:00

i have a very strange feeling of liberation poking inside me for the past few days. and it feels great. as if exempt from a constant time trial. i feel brilliant. and peaceful. and at complete ease.

also, i'm loving them all. the work, the people, the food, auntyji... they're wonderful. i still think B. is my favorite person. he's an eclectic mix of anticipation, suspense, crudeness, and confidence. that's the word i was looking for -confidence. i hate people who stutter and fumble at every decision. people who screen across walls and lamp posts when asked a question. it just bugs me to no end. anyway, to get back to the point, i simply admire some of his virtues.

i also had a solid fist-pump moment today, when i went into the BRI. i've been wanting to go inside the building ever since i got here, but these silly security personnel just never would. so i had the perfect opportunity to go inside today. scrounge, you may say. but i don't think that way. anywho, i got to see gordon hall, and it was fucking fantastic. the marble glittering on the stairwell, with portraits of some of the wonders of medical science. my oh my, i loved it.

surgery tomorrow. by the way, the session on transapical catheter-assisted aortic valve session was awesome this morning.

an evening to remember

2010-07-08T19:23:00.000-07:00

i walked down those corridors. earlier this evening. when the sun was almost setting, and the sky looked ablaze. with melodies of the greatest. with names and wonderments. and i was baffled. oh dear god. at the might and power and glory of an institution. of the intelligence that floats amass. in the little quadrangle. where those midgets spoke of the iraqi war and mechanics.

and two passers-by gaped at me in the most unusual of ways. i peeked at their partially-open lips through the corner of my left eye. my other self was too focused. on the walls and shelves. of the mighty revolutionaries who once rose in the name of scientific innovations.

i had a beautiful evening. an evening i have waited for in months and months. an evening which made me cry in the middle of the stony quadrangle, decorated with stars. and bright cherry blossoms.

i felt the breeze. by the river charles, where millions of hands have washed their bloods. and sailed across shores in the search of knowledge and truth. honestly, one of the best evenings of my life.

deerfield

2010-07-07T20:18:00.000-07:00

it's funny. i met this guy in the hospital. a charming young man with very a fine taste, you can tell by the choice of his clothing. introduces himself. very coyly. from deerfield, il.

goes here now. some of his tales brought back a lot of memories of a single winter evening. aah...i loved it that night. on the grass. when the ice and snow, a paltry mix of checkers and rye. on my face. my fingers, numb and painless.

it's been good here so far. heard some bad news today about KD. i'm kinda not happy about the decision...but oh well. things happen for a reason i guess.

note

2010-07-06T17:53:00.001-07:00

it's been a wonderful past few days. i can't even explain in words. i've had some quiet moments. some realizations. some really depressing moments. but some really good ones too.

i'm really liking this lab i joined. the people are challenging and i'm still trying to get into the loop. have to admit, the PI has been very generous with letting me do things.

and amidst all this science, i've had time to think. to think about what it means to be where i am. how life is different from how it used to be. and i take it all with a silent gulp. because i'm more concerned about this future of mine. about this future of ours.

quaint and eccentric

2010-07-05T19:26:00.000-07:00

quincy market and boston common

pixie-land and smartpeopleville

2010-06-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

i don't know why TKR reminds me of a little pixie. by no means is he, however, little. it's just the way he stares. and smiles. and speaks. and gasps. like a perfect country gentleman from somewhere in hampshire. and it amuses me how he speaks in bouts of german. fascinating, to say the least. he encourages me. daily. and i love it.

so far cardiac's going great. mostly in the ICU, rounding. a patient passed away last night. he was post-op for around 40 days. admitted patients are just interesting. delirium is very common in this unit. and i didn't miss an opportunity to meet this 50-something year old female weighing well over 120 kilos (who TKR politely describes as having a slightly high BMI) and thinking her bed is made of ice. another dude next to her bed is a funeral director.

so far things have been interesting. will keep you posted

PS. in conversation with AI this morning, i love how she said, and i quote, yea yea. i know it's time for you to go back to smartpeopleville (re: H ).

2010-06-21T12:56:00.000-07:00

when i went to the surgical oncology ward today, i completely lost it. i was wailing on the floor. i needed a nurse to assist me back to cardiac icu

later in the morning, when i was sitting in the cafeteria. a middle-aged woman appeared to stop. beside me. her husband was pushing her wheel chair around. she was stage iv myeloma. had lost all her hair. her bones terribly brittle. intimidated eyes. a dry foaming mouth.

yet, she forgot to sell her smile.

Glee and other tales

2010-06-14T12:44:00.000-07:00

the past few days have been a little slow, but fairly productive and very interesting, to say the least. i managed to watch an episode of Glee -now this was not out of an uncanny personal desire to see yet another sassy high-school-musical-genre show, but i read in the Times something about the social implications portrayed in the show; so i thought i'd check it out. maybe one episode doesn't do justice, but the singing was fairly good. i didn't really see any social implications apart from this haggard mother divorcing an abusive husband who is apparently having an extra-marital affair with a "tattooed monster", and of course you never miss a flick of this sort without teenage pregnancy and baby-adoption drama. anyway, Times probably has a point and maybe i didn't quite see it from just one episode.

boston so far has been going well. managed to go to chinatown yesterday. it was a really colorful and exotic part of the city. B and i ate at a local gourmet dumpling house which served roasted pig heart as its delicacy. i wanted to try it out really badly, but controlled my desire in eccentricities for fear of falling ill and not being able to go to work. random observation: there are a lot of asians in boston. it's pretty cool. an interesting mix.

i've also been traipsing around the campus a lot. and i love it. every time i look at those pillars, it just really makes me want to just burst inside and see what it's like. but i'll wait till i get the official tour. i have a few appointments lined up to meet a few people there, so we'll see how that goes. i use the library a lot, and it's a cool spot to just relax and read up a few articles after standing in the OR. sometimes, i managed to catch a quick nap and get back to work.

cardio wise it's going great. ICU rounds are awesome and hilarious. these attendings have a great sense of humor! Dr EK randomly asked me a series of three questions the other day about the exact location of the diverticula and i had no friggin' idea. and then VT stepped in and says he's not a medical student Dr K. he paused for about a micro-second. so wait you're not a medical student? that means you're like a student student? like those that go to college? oh like a college student? i aptly made the clarification that i indeed am an undergrad in a college in Indiana and not at H (since every mortal and microbe in the hospital conveniently assumes so) and moved on from there. ever since that colorful encounter we have discussed what is the meaning of ghee, who invented peanut butter and why i was interested in medicine.

i took some time out to read Cohn's surgery book. and it's awesome. read up two chapters on aortic aneurysms and stem-cell induced myocardial regeneration. the latter chapter was pretty old, since i know a not of new therapies have come out since the article was written, but it was still a good info-read. i've also been working on sutures a little bit, and trying to do things. oh and i forgot to mention, saturday morning was interesting. one of the resident interns, XS (calls himself X-man) didn't show up to work. we tried contacting his beeper only to be answered by some rogue who found it on the street and christened herself Roy Roberts! that's a very cheesy name. and then one of the RNs assumed that he was dead or possibly kidnapped and packaged off to the far east. also SM (who is by the way, a very attractive woman -more so because she is a surgeon) got a little worked up. i kinda giggled because i knew it was probably going to turn out to be yet another hangover story (which i later found out it was), but i didn't say much at the time.

that's pretty much how it has been. will update soon!

lost in charles

2010-06-10T12:05:00.000-07:00

i've been constantly thinking about the little boy i saw at the train station yesterday. he was probably fourteen or fifteen years of age. smooth auburn hair brushed neatly back. uncanny palor on his face. wheeling his father around on the wheelchair. and midst of the confusion of the train station he looked so lost. i could tell a bare frustration on his face. his father was trying to keep the pace and distract. but he smiled when i looked at him. i smiled back. calmly yet awkwardly. i wanted to say. is there anything i can do? but i didn't. i just smiled. and waved a cheerful goodbye/hello: i'm not sure which one it was supposed to mean.

but since then, i have a strange tingling sensation in my brain. i hope it goes away soon. i know it's not a feeling of guilt. it's a little discomforting.

hospital's going well. i'm learning each day. little by little. slowly yet surely.

2010-06-05T11:28:00.001-07:00

even thought saturday mornings can be very lazy and lousy. sometimes. i try and make full use of it. which comes to my point: i went to the hospital today.

stuff i learned/did:

learned the technique of bronchoscopy/ what it looks like through the scope.

pulled out chest tubes. chest tubes are placed perioperatively to drain fluids from the chest. that was interesting. Dr V mentioned that you've got to hum a long hum while pulling out the tubes because you need to create the negative pressure inside so as to prevent bubbles, etc. but Dr V let me do the stuff. it was really cool.

talked about the plus and minuses of private practice vs hospital employment. Dr Cohen had very interesting points. i guess you need to make a choice at some point. Dr V made an intelligent point. he goes. so if i'm a plastic surgeon and want to do private practice i really need to work on people like michael jackson and the rest will follow. and then he goes, god forbid i ever have to do cardiology work on him.

figured out a gameplan for tomorrow. Dr V wants me to present a patient. i'm a little nervous but hey, this is how we learn right? so i'm probably going to present a patient who was operated for mitral valve repair. we'll see how it goes. i've been asked to go there tomorrow morning at 6:30

dr S was fun today too. saw a few chest x-rays. learned what it looks like if the central line snaps. but thank god, in that patient, it didn't. she has 7 other lines going anyway!

more tomorrow. yes i work 7 days a week. and i love it

shapiro 6w

2010-06-04T10:44:00.000-07:00

friday morning. started work around 7 this morning. i was initially confused what i was supposed to do today or where to go. but then JW messaged me last night to work with him. he's a nice guy. very down to earth. doesn't show off his knowledge!

anyway, so we started rounds on 6 West in Shapiro where the intensive care unit is. JW and I weren't sure exactly which team we should join. but it turned out just fine. we tagged along with dr david silver. an anesthesiology attending, who specializes in cardiac anesthesia. we both thought he was a great teacher. couple of things we learned (and i will discuss in more details later):

1) patients on ventilators who need sedation need to occasionally be on sedation holiday so that over-dose of sedatives does not cause delirium.
2) there is the RAS scale for sedation, which should be matched against when diagnosing a patient
3) the CAM scale is for delirium
4) we learned about acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) and the need for peep-ing so as to prevent total lung failure
5) learned the clincal symptoms of leukocytosis
6) Need for esophageal balloon to actually measure internal pressure. important to note that big breasts and other anterior weights (like obesity affecting abdomen) can actually affect internal pressure sig.
7) also post-oped a pt who was diagnosed with a heart tumor! had never heard/seen that before!

I'll talk in more details about these jargons in an upcoming post! till then, thanks for stopping by!

clinical expedition day 1

2010-06-03T18:24:00.001-07:00

7:00 am: conference in the morning. they had m&m which is the short form for morbidity and mortality. 8 complications with 6 deaths. one of the biggest discussions yesterday was on HIT. HIT stands for heparin-induced thrombocytopenia. what that basically means is the heparin, an anti-coagulant can actually go and reduce platelet count in the human body leading to complications. so the question arose should we test for HIT in a patient pre-operative procedure or what should be the best way to administer this. i don't exactly remember where the debate ended up, but in short it was undecided.

after that, Dr R. showed me around Shapiro. it's a really nice building. very glassy and flashy. had gone to the ICU for a catch-up round! met the fellows. pretty interesting stuff.

afternoon, basically had clinics with Dr B. most diagnoses involved mitral valve stenoses. so we had to weigh out, along with the patient's family, whether we wanted valve replacement or repair! need to choose between mechanical valve and pig/cow valve. some patients have really interesting social history. remember one lady, probably Portuguese, with large hazel eyes, reddish-brown hair, artificial curls, and heavy eye-make up. came with a complaint of severe shortness of breath. she admits to snorting cocaine everyday, marijuana 3 times a week and heavy smoking and daily consumption of alcohol. she smiles for twenty seconds and adds that she never forgets her calcium pills. paradox after paradox you encounter in this professions. no excuses, no judgments allowed! do your work and get outta here!

other than that, i read up on aortic dissection. cases tomorrow are mitral valve replacement and coronary artery bypass graft. so i'm reading up on them.

countway excursion

2010-06-01T16:58:00.000-07:00

not my best day today. i've just been a mess of emotions. went into the attendings office and bawled sporadically. it felt so good. but unreal. it was so raw. and coarse. i did not feel embarassed. at all. i knew this was coming. but i didn't realize that my attending will be the victim.

why this sudden reaction you ask. i think part of it is a feeling of personal failure. part of it is this unreal sheath beneath which I feel like i'm pushing every day. talking to B. i don't know. about the same thing over and over again. and while i sit in the countway library this evening, pondering over the occurrences of the past few weeks, it makes me shiver and cower in embarrassment and in pain. i felt negated and i felt pushed and plowed. oh goodness, over-ridden! and i couldn't take it any more this evening. so i let loose. completely. but he cheered me up. Dr B.

other than that. i love harvard. and the medical school is marvelous. i keep thinking about S all the time. i don't know why. i miss her a lot. and i wish she was here. so that i could tell her i loved her. once upon a time, when she would have never guessed. but this square of ashen stones is like a garland of budding blossoms. gerberas and orchids. so beautiful and pleasant. and amidst this garland is an established generation drenched in pain, brevity, angst and disdain. and how competitive they are. oh that look on their eyes!

today was mostly orientation. went to the abrams conference room at 10:00. we had 4 videos to watch and answer questions about them. funny part is no one really cared about watching the videos since the supervisor was calling out all the answers of the safety quiz anyway. after that, went up to meet Dr B. and i really like him. he asked me to go to conference tomorrow morning at 7. and then i'm on OR duty. am excited about meeting the chief resident!

that's all for today. more tomorrow!

cambridge, ma

2010-05-29T18:58:00.000-07:00

i kinda felt home-sick last night. and so i left the room early last night. and called up A. and spoke to him for a very very long time. and it felt so good. we laughed at many of our old jokes; ones that used to desperately crack me up in school. Especially, the crusade against It's and M. you know what i'm talking about right, A? ; )

managed to go to Harvard's campus today with B. it was simply great. i was looking at their commencement pictures last night and it made me cry so bad. i don't even know why. yes, i'm probably a wuss. but i think every time i think about the school, it makes me want to go there. more and more, everyday. anyway, it was a great trip. we saw john harvard's statue; the divinity school, some of the libraries, the peabody museum and some other stuff. the churches are awesome. old, really old.

other than that today, watched letters to juliet. it was kinda lame. also the chicago uno herbed chicken was disgusting.
oh i also realized that i am drinking too much coffee lately. time for some caffeine control. and yes, i strongly believe that decaf coffee is NOT legit! and no arguments there!

day 1

2010-05-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

may 20th.

done with finals. yet it doesn't feel like school's over. it's weird, i know.
i'm looking forward to this summer a lot. all the surgery and all the other professional work i'm supposed to be doing. seems kinda professional - well i know it's professional. but it's still interesting. and exciting. and a little nerve-wracking.

this is something i decided recently. i want to work with depauw's dining services and make sure people eat healthier food. my goal is not to urge the ban of any food items or dishes per se, but we're going to try and get healthier ingredients! because all that asian delicacy of chow mein and golden chicken has waaay too much sodium per serving than is necessary for a day. also, we're going to try and cut down on things that have trans fats. that's definitely not something you'd want to have on a regular basis if you want to save your heart even five years down the line.
spoke to steve about all this. i'm going to try and work with the harvard sustainability this summer and adopt some of their initiatives. some of their policies are already being implemented on campus. like we do have cage-free eggs and 95% of our coffee is free trade.
this goes to say that my point is not to re-model our dining services "according" to harvard's. i looked at their sustainability initiative and it just looks very feasible and doable. so it's not trying to be like them, but just implementing a model that looks healthy and will benefit campus!

plans for today: probably watch a movie with B, and lounge around. spoke to P yesterday regarding writing a review paper for research. plan is to get it done and sent for review by the end of the summer. but as for today, it's going to be lazy. and i, for one, am thoroughly excited!

a note

2010-04-11T21:03:00.000-07:00

and as you glittered in the sunshine. i swept my sweat. panting and heaving. as i carved the curves of your delicate lips. pulsatile wrists. and cold bosom.

but when i walked down through the bushes. i thought of you. and that wintry december evening. the forgiveness. fake. and treachery. dry.

i will await this thanksgiving.

elevator

2010-01-26T19:31:00.000-08:00

he told me today. in the elevator. when it was just him and i. this is what he said.

when they told me graduation was a burden. i locked my door. and studied. for hours and hours and hours. and while they drank. i would sleep. dreaming about my future. intelligence is not my gift. determination is.

To NJM. thank you

financial district

2010-01-24T17:31:00.000-08:00

so i walked down the street. up. down. up. down. several times. wall street. and not a single building was without the name. in golden paint. and that door to tiffany. full of smell and desire. and fifty seven strangers posing in front of washington. george, they called him. clever man, i say. and if you saw the statue. the girth of pomposity.

and then down the bifurcation. to the monument. where they say liberty resides. in green. i find that the paradox. for if this district of finance ever complained of raging ego. and aggression. point your fingers to that statuette in green. quite lovely with the flame. even greener.

and then back to fifth. at my little table at barnes and noble. two books on the wood. the harvard psychedelic club. i don't remember the other. people came and went. for six hours i sat. sipped on steaming tea. while water drizzled today in new york city. and the sun never shone. and the street of wall. cluttered with price-tagged tourists. with insufficient jingles. whatever happened to the empire?

and then came clarence. and drexel. and isabella. in a violent circuit. and they spoke of stocks. and trump. real estate. and i think, leather. this young man -clumsy to the skin -dropped two cups of espresso. on another woman by his side. sorry is not the solution.

M's birthday. i'm not there. things happen. happy day to her.

i've been looking for salons. the jets are playing. the colts. new york and indiana. i think i'm still a little undecided. came back. time for turkey sandwich.

the lake looks grumpy tonight

to pam

2010-01-22T21:30:00.000-08:00

at the hospital. she greeted me. hey tom, you work hard dont you. not really. i say. i do my job. and i love it. she murmurs gently as she inhales. through this narrow pipe stuck to her nose. i love her cheeks. bright and rosy. she's almost fifty.

and i love her strength. next week. she gets her third lung transplant. after chronic rejection. and now kidneys. they apparently stopped working. i love her. and i wish i could do something. pam. i found tears on my eyes. after you wheeled into the elevator. with ben by your side.

i want to meet you before you leave. i want you to rub your smile. on me

king's monday

2010-01-18T15:05:00.000-08:00

it was unusual today. martin luther king to the rescue. an empty corridor in seven hudson north. steve wasn't there either. i traipsed around a little bit. decided, library was a good option. read a few case studies. took the train down. right till juiliard.

and that spectacle is beautiful. the alabaster. the quartz. sparkling in the white of a crisp monday morning. in new york city. while the brokers fled in pursuit. the ends of their expensive coats knotting with the wind. scanned the breadth of the wide arches, and smiled. more of a grin. i cannot distinguish. but i kept walking. knowing many a genius was made.

and then my usual spot. fifth avenue. however, today was a detour through bryant park. sat on one of those moss green, deformed chairs across the colonnade of dead, heaving trees. at least a hundred noticeable strangers skated in the pond. good business, i say. in sweat. and ecstasy. and some frustration beneath the breaths. i love when people laugh. have you ever heard the different tones? pitches? plentiful.

afternoon at barnes and noble. three books at my table. the appointment, vascular surgery, men i might have known. three extreme genres. and by me, today, sat an interesting pair of marketeers. possibly one at readers digest. the other, morgan stanley folks. reading the same book. monkey business.

on the way back. this little street urchin. sitting at the corner of seventh avenue and w 34th. face hidden by a sweatshirt. screaming jesus. and the little plaque by his bowl. it said, everyone needs a shelter -you and i. and on the wall near city college -someone sprayed, in bold italics, JEFUS.

i wish i was carrying cash today

an eastside sunday

2010-01-17T15:21:00.000-08:00

in the rain, umbrella-less, i walked out of spring street. a bag of chanel dangling on my wrist. and when i passed those stupid fools, they smiled at me. what hypocrisy. this bloody world. and without the name, they'd shrug in shame. and in a grin of cold ignorance.

at saint patrick's today. i lit a flame. in your name, little judah. your mother is my life. sleep well, dear love. for when you went away, she bellowed in pain. in shame and a velvet melancholy. for the months you drank her milk, i hope you smiled. in this tortuous world. full of loops and turns.

and in the arch of thomas, i shed a tear. as the boys sang a hymn. praising god -what purity hemmed their tones. in belief and otherwise, i remembered you. once again, the love for granted. and once i leave, you'll knit your soul. i know it.

i like your flesh

saturday manhattan

2010-01-16T15:27:00.000-08:00

and when i walked down fifth avenue today, i felt useless. a flurry of talent around me. and i was like some perfume whiff. drifting along. i felt crabby. crammy. whatever the word is. and crawled into my little niche.

and at the coffee shop i heard them speak. duplicitous revelation. of lookism in this state. and in this world. of beauty and lust. of strength and might. i whispered a prayer. because i'm none of those.

and then at the station. penn. i took a pause. as if time froze on my grip. and i looked around...like a trail of monumental circles swooshing past my grasp. and they ran and raced. to go home. or to a funeral. alexis in white. patty in gray. helena in brilliant turquoise. and in my pause, i found comfort. at passers-by in psychedelic waist coats and wheeling bags. may they find comfort too.

varsity monologues

2010-01-15T16:34:00.000-08:00

i cried today. and i prayed today.

i hadn't in days. and i saw that heart. pulsate. pulsate. scramble it all up...and then it was gone. in my eyes. and i breathed. and i shed a drop.

thank you for your words last night. i miss you love.

in my little manhattan apartment, i'm hearing your song. love for granted. the city is beautiful. i saved a few lives. said a few lies -please forgive me.

and she blew me a kiss and wanted. to take me away. to her home back in north carolina. while i held her leg. my palms covered with blood. from her veins and soul. i miss you tracy. this is the first in fifty nine days

and to you M. you are the man. you baffle me, all the time. i've sheltered a comfort. and i pray you wash the liqueur out of your bruise. and grow up further to be a father. like you've wanted. i'll visit you when you're white

to A and R, thank you. i've learned a new purpose to my life. god bless you both. i'll be there

and to you my closest friend, keep my heart with you. in blue and in red. it is sealed with a dream

AKA

2010-01-11T16:05:00.001-08:00

i don't know if i'm just being a moral freak. but i need to get this out.

when a patient undergoes bilateral above knee amputations, post-surgery it is NOT funny.

that's all. thanks JJ. i'll keep that in mind

another manhattan day

2010-01-09T15:24:00.000-08:00

so i started off the day in a foul mood. well it's not the biggest deal in the world, but my phone acted up. i found a broken port -which means, i need to get a new phone.

so i did. i went to the retail store on fifth avenue (ha...good excuse to take a stroll down that street) and got a new one. nothing too fancy, but it's working. so good.

oh and i LOVED the public library on fifth avenue. it's awesome. if you, the reader, ever come to new york city, please check it out! that place is old, architecturally badass and the people are awesome. in the process i bumped into this lady. an elderly french lady, probably in her late 50s, wearing a pink hat, brown mittens and a brown furry coat. she had long white hair, with jagged ends. she had a tote bag on her right hand and a GAP bag on her left.

she was talking to the pigeons and doves at the intersection of fifth avenue and W 42nd Street (near Bryant Park). It took me a minute to figure out her words. Je veux que tu vives...

also strolled down United Nations place. It was interesting ... text books don't do much justice to the beauty and magnificence of the building. i sometimes wish people didn't come up to me for money or survival assistance. i'm a student without money. i cannot help. if i say it aloud they look at my coat and smile. the calvin klein tag is increasingly becoming a problem. i may pull it off someday

next drift times square. it was nice. possibly an ocean of people with different smells and wafts. why is that the first thing i notice? i don't know. random thought: i think i like third avenue or lexington avenue more than i like fifth avenue -just a personal preference i guess.

so this is the gameplan for tomorrow. go to CU Undergrad campus and then met art. i'm really excited. will keep you posted

this little presbyterian life

2010-01-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

two people i admire at the moment

pat reavey and davey woodland.

pat reminds me how work and life can be balanced. enthusiasm and vivacity.

davey - the type of doc i want to be.

signing off at the moment. fifth avenue calls me

2010-01-06T19:16:00.000-08:00

Peter (after stepping into the OR) : Oh my! Why is there a Victoria's Secret bag here?

Nurse (giggling coyly) : It's not mine.

P: Why do you want to show off the fact you bought your panties?

N: I'm telling you it's not mine.

P: Maybe I should go in there and buy something consumer-able. Maybe sweat pants that say "Pink" or "Juicy"?

january two

2010-01-02T17:00:00.000-08:00

i made it to new york today. months and months of emailing back and forth, comes alive. it feels good. although i will admit, i'm nervous. really nervous.

my flight from chicago was a little strange. this man, sitting by me, stroked his beard throughout the flight. i got lectured on why i should convert to judaism. apparently the power of prayer will make me successful. i never disbelieved in prayers.

in the air, i felt a little uncomfortable. i have never felt that way before. i don't know what it was. nervousness? fright?

i land sometime mid-afternoon. my arms are a little sore -this system of valet baggage is quite a bummer. i drag myself forward. almost half a mile. welcome to new york. there was this girl on flight i thought was very attractive. i had a feeling she wanted to talk to me. she just wouldn't stop looking. for a second i thought i'd walk up to her and say hello. but i didn't. i'll blame it on my anti-socialness.

it's been a while since i've been on the subway. and when i was on it today, i swear i stared at people so awkwardly. i love reading expressions. to my right, was a mexican guy. fairly inebriated with orange dreads. his hair hit my cheeks several times while he was head banging. to my left was an army guy. probably in his early twenties. he looked so pre-occupied. i loved it.

i'm in the apartment right now. my hostess S is an MIT undergrad. living on the 29th floor is wonderful. i see times square and empire state from my window.

central park tomorrow.

january one

2010-01-01T22:10:00.000-08:00

and when i saw you today, i skipped a beat. not in a good way.

you looked wet. and your half-smile reminded me of that timid august evening. when you were all colorful and bright. and a little shy to lend me your hand. and i remember your little grin. like a moon-slit. and your occasional giggles.

and when you sat there, by the perfusing halogen shade, i traced your eye brows. in the corner by the dresser. so that you would not see. i feel ashamed now.

i don't know why but i squirmed at your voice. i felt deluded. a little cheated, but i can let that pass. not because i fell in love with you, but because there was this mesh of trust that you wove out of a timeless misery. i'll let it slide.

if i could wish upon a star. this day. i'd say go where the dream catchers fly their kites. you will see blood on your eyelashes tomorrow.

note to you

2009-12-31T06:20:00.000-08:00

one thing i've learned this year is to move on.

i earmark this year. fairly special. fairly depressing. losing friends. making new ones. three car accidents. i even tried a bit of origami; not my best talent. witnessed forty-five deaths. breast cancer. i miss those faces -wherever they may be.

the summer seemed like a conclave of emotions. A walked in to my life. B walked out. she wanted it. so badly. and i remember nights after nights over the telephone, we would wire our feelings. sometimes gleeful. sometimes distressing. we crafted a future. holding hands and sucking lips. but i walked away. on a cloudy night. a silent tuesday.

and then came R. bubbly and cheerful at first, fairly nonpareil. i will admit, my emotions strengthened. but i never let proximity become an excuse. we communicated. sometimes. and spoke about how wonderful it would be to run away in the distance. travel the skies. through a circuit of cultures, and rhythms and sketchy monuments. we thought we would grow. as responsible individuals. at the behest of time. we molded ourselves as dolls of innocence. but we broke apart. and i gave thanks. silently. thanksgiving was meaningful.

on the patio by the lake, i made a figurine. out of snow. of the delicate breasts. i remember C. i miss you dear.

note

2009-10-28T09:53:00.000-07:00

i love your high school monotone.

so much.

note

2009-10-27T19:59:00.000-07:00

and it rained this evening. like it would at home. aunty ann and i would sit outside in the porch and sip cups and cups of rain water with lemon drops. and talk about old memories that made us cry. and i remembered you in the middle of it all.

sometimes, i wish i had undone time. for all the times i had gotten angry, really angry, i wish i could throw out those words at you. little shards of emotions buried in the deck. i will play them one day. and you will never learn the trick. i promise you that.

but you made me a dream catcher out of a fairy man. and i realized those wings were elastic. very early. very very early. and out of my caution, i did not say anything. never will. you dissolve conviction in self-confusion. and it amuses me, really.

i wish success on your smile. send me a note when you stretch.

note

2009-09-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

and i would hold your hand, little pebbles, and tell you that i love you.

if you promised me. without sneering. and told me your song. and played the reeds for a million moments. across the halls and the walkways, where we walk through wonderment.

if i had a rainbow on my chin, i would art it on your face. for a time, when you forget sunshine.

note

2009-08-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

if you were real, i would hold on to you.

but i wept that one night, and gave you away.

on words. i could never imagine.

today is the day for recompense. we will smile, yes. emotionless.

but why would you lie to me, mister x?

note

2009-08-22T17:47:00.000-07:00

i don't remember you.

anymore.

note

2009-08-18T19:09:00.000-07:00

and i saw the storm. trickle by trickle.

and remembered when i sat by the lamp, combing my hair. and i smiled at my own reflection in the mirror. fleeting thoughts -once unrealistic, but real today.

but i still smile.

sometimes.

august fourteen

2009-08-14T11:19:00.000-07:00

remember when your fingers froze. that one night?

oh i forget, it's you.

note

2009-08-13T17:23:00.000-07:00

i will call you the master of spices.

i found a piece of your nail today.

note

2009-08-12T06:30:00.000-07:00

you burning hypocrite.

i know your truth.

note

2009-08-09T21:20:00.000-07:00

i thought about you for a very long time today.

and i imagined a piece of glass. by the window, across the lane. and when the little kids bicycled along the power lines, they left a trail. incomplete and patchy.

but the story never ended. i am not sure how or where it began. and i bet i never will. such is the nature of our demonstration. your fury blazing on a canvas across the wall. and i leap over the windows, and the wall that you built.

if i could pull out an item from the box, i would pull out water. so that you would see your face. and your half-smiles.

open your door sometimes. there's a sparkle on your face.

summer song

2009-08-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

and this is a summer song i wrote while you were away. a probable collage of confessions and thoughts. forgive me if it hurts. i promise, i mean every word i say.

i will not hesitate to say that your selfishness lines your smile. that your fingers curl up to grip a desire. unexpressed yet meant. and when i see you next, i will laugh within. you will never know who you are. and when i slip away into the shade, you will lose my trail. forever, with no return. and i will be honest, when i saw your tassels the other day, it made me laugh. it made me laugh not because of you, but because of me. because i learned my folly, after so many days.

and when i went back home that one time, i ran around the streets imagining you were here. what if you had fathered a vision that i had never known. and you lied to me. endlessly. for the sake of motion. for the sake of twining around the spiral. the spiral where your shadows fall into the pit.

but you don't realize that this world is a maze. a maze where you forget the ends. without escape. a maze where you smile. repeatedly. because that is the key to the nearby exit.

mister y, go away.

shore line

2009-08-03T10:28:00.000-07:00

mister z, i licked the waves.

and i smelled the sand. scorching through my nose, that sweet smell of a rainless shore. and they say, the hurricane ate her flesh.

four years have passed.

and while i swam, i thought of you.

note

2009-08-02T18:03:00.000-07:00

i'd say, erase this doubt.

and look at your face on the half-formed waves.

you will find solidarity in the specks. i swear.

note

2009-07-30T21:06:00.000-07:00

if i could open my eyes, and say good bye to you, little rainbow, i'd paint the sky with stars.

my heart would be in your fist. i swear, you are nowhere to be found.

anymore.

a note

2009-07-29T12:18:00.000-07:00

i believe i have never told you the story of my mud house.

and one monsoon, eight months after your birth - they burned my house. with fuming gasoline and tar. i still have a little piece of the molten iron from the door by the alley -scribbled 'sin' across its diagonal. in a bold red; possibly pastel. with the stench of cold, moaning gasoline drips and smudged finger prints. i wish they were mine- little concentric lines piling into a spot.

so many days have passed by. mister x, i still smell your sweat.

note

2009-07-28T21:10:00.000-07:00

and mister X, thank you for your time. i appreciate your tenderness.

and mister Y, thank you for your patience. i appreciate your care.

and mister Z, thank you for your gratitude. i love your heart. more so, this one phone conversation which we had. a long time ago. i am sure you have forgotten -do not worry. for, i learned you are a man.

july eighteen

2009-07-18T18:08:00.000-07:00

if you break your promise, little pebbles, i will take you home. and they will gape at you with bloody eye lashes.

and they will tell you, little pebbles, give me your hand. and you would be shy. sweaty and slimy. and you would run up to me. patting your little feet on the cold mosaic.

but this time, i will not hold your hand.

july fourteen

2009-07-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

little pebbles, i stole your tongue the other night.

and wrapped in my warmth, you heaved a whir of sighs.

and you trickled beads by your pillow. remember that one night?

july ten

2009-07-10T08:29:00.000-07:00

and now i know why you walked away.

understand, what you tried to say to me -i didn't smile.

i pulled those strings. the curtains fell in splendor. crimson velvet. through your lashes.

hand in hand, you said. let us pluck those strings.

july eight

2009-07-07T22:35:00.000-07:00

i have called you many names.

for a reason.

i wanted you to know that.

june twentynine

2009-06-28T22:13:00.000-07:00

and mister curiosity, give me strength. to touch your soul. love your love. feel your pulse. move your rhyme and tap your dance.

and taste your tear, when it glistens in the moon. like when you left those drops behind on the blades. crystal green. like dangling emeralds on little breasts. and my fingers would wriggle all over mosaic. in a monotonic tingle. clasped to your fists. i wouldn't let go.

you hopeless story teller. give me your yarn. and i will spin the wheel.

june sixteen

2009-06-15T21:35:00.000-07:00

and i gave you my pen and told you scribble your thoughts out. and you scribbled bold alphabets. all over your palm and delicate fingers. a string of names i've never heard before. in a careful casual font -welcoming, to say the least. semi-cursive. crude and rich.

and i mapped dots through your eyes. remember when we used to run through the field. rustling across a puddle of dead leaf veins. and we looked at each other and giggled all the time. like seven-year-old clowns trapped in a shell of silliness. but we were not seven-year-olds. and remember, how we ploughed through the snow. you heaving. dark, mournful sighs that choked your mind. and then you would sit and collect snow flakes. curse all the time, because they melted through your fists. and you would say look at the stars. they're little flakes silly let them go, i would say. and you'd turn around with a violent swoosh. walk up ten steps. sit down and look outside. you hated snow. i remember. but you slipped away so easily. cast in a mold so that i could never reach you. good job i will say. atleast we are far apart. and i am out of pain. and i am away from all your ridicule. i know you are alive. somewhere, across the ocean.

the water still flows through me. sometimes.

note

2009-06-12T07:35:00.000-07:00

and listen, i forgot to tell you something the other day.

two words. thank you.

i have moved on with your breathlessness. i swear. that night. when we went to the tower, I prayed for you. for you, so that your disbelief can be overlooked. and i thought of the city in july, and the rain clouds that rumbled across the greasy alley.

what is to let go? your daunting smile and the grandma tales that spoke of loyalties. lies -I am convinced. promised loyalties? who framed this clause?

2009-06-01T16:28:00.000-07:00

My compound. Eu(1,2-BDC)(phen)bredwards.Cl3. H2O

Expecting both ligands to be bidentate chelate. Although phen could turn out to be tridentate. I need to maximize yield of the solvothermal synthesis. However, thanks to the global mailing system, the ionic liquid is not in, even after ordering it one month in advance.

The ionic liquid I am using for synthesis is called ECOENG-212. IUPAC name for the compound is 1-Ethyl-3-methylimidazolium ethyl sulfate. I am yet in the process of defining the chemical composition of "bredwards". Having defined it, I will soon write down the abstract.

So far, that's the plan.

la lune qui flotte

2009-05-24T18:52:00.000-07:00

and there you were. burnt by the sunlight and the smell of solitude. i swear in my name, i have missed you with my soul. so these are my words for you.

i love you.

and i spoke to that sheet of emptiness. those charcoal bricks, stacked up since the war. the great war where we dropped a peel of sweat.

Je sens sous tes lèvres, une odeur de fièvre, de gosse mal nourrie, et sous ta caresse, je sens une ivresse, qui m'anéantit. (I smell on your lips, a scent of fever, of an underfed kid, and under your caress, I feel a drunkeness, that kills me).

note

2009-05-14T08:23:00.000-07:00

to those three people in my life, who gave me comfort and joy, i want to thank you today.
one is lost, one is gained, one is fading.

i can feel the pulse of this whirl of change. a strange numbness creeping in every day. not that i know the reason, nor do i think i ever will. it's a sort of make or break array. it makes me laugh -the fact that i envisioned this. so subtle and smooth. and i stand at this spot. questioning questions and swatting hopes.

remember when we used to sit and count water drops? the gurgling rain by the window pane, spread across a netted screen. peaceful and calm, you would talk of strangers and candle stands. and bow your fingers in the shape of stars.

it feels like home again. i swear. awkward, yes. like a narrow displacement to a place that wasn't mine. oh listen, why did we come home again? because you said let's run away from this rage. and i said but this rage never ends. so what you said, and pushed my hand away from your chest. but i want to go home. why would they be jealous of me i ask you. and you keep quiet.

you fake plastic beast, i win this game

2009-05-09T19:29:00.000-07:00

remember when we started this game? you and i. sitting at the table. flipping through tears and weaknesses. and we decked those cards. you the taker. me the giver.

and i saw through your eyes. at least a hundred times. and didn't say anything. because we're two bodies and a million minds.

this is my trail of imperfection.

recollection

2009-05-02T18:43:00.000-07:00

and in the middle of the sea, we quibbled like strangers. two bodies. five minds. because i want your voice. the raspy and chirpy monotone in which you express love. i count your breaths. seven...ten...twelve...twenty-nine...fifty-six. and it stops. you wake up, stretch your soul, arch your knuckles and leave the room. but you leave behind footprints on the carpet. and i collect them when you're gone. they are in my music box. my monopoly.

but you've lost the game. in this endless whirl of conscience and regret, i hear your drones. i remember you. everyday. you remind me of clouds. and innocent rain. that shade of gray scribbled on your grave. i have your fingers in my color box. pitched with pastel. a dark shade of red. but wait. you deserve white. because you are white. or at least you were, till i insulted your blood.

i want a train. if you can give me one, i will give you my finger. i swear i will. and i will trail up to the war lord and spit on his knee. in Paris, you will see, how much i fume. and if you knock at my door, i will trim your sleeves.

i miss your eyes. they are beautiful and round. a mix of brown and green, like the saturday sky.

2009-04-25T22:25:00.000-07:00

you know, you selfish clown, i want to be like you. every second of every day that passes by, i want to be like you. more and more. self-conserved. self-preserved. i want to be like you, shut up in a box without ventilation, so that even the air can't feel your bare skin. so that i am not the stereotype of a shadow, or a rain cloud that drizzles rain aimlessly across borders. because i want to construct this alley with pebble stones that you have never seen, or smelt, or touched. because your solitude is my envy.

you selfish clown, i want you back. i need your soul and your cleansing blood so that i never regret my days. so that those silly tittle tattles don't come in my way to peace. i need your breath, because i have your fever. and it won't go away, i swear. it won't, until you tie me a ribbon and tell me that you will give me your solitude.

i need it and you need to understand. come on, selfish clown, perk up your soul

note

2009-04-19T23:02:00.000-07:00

and this is why, i said the other day, let's sit down and count the stars. it's been a long long time since dover days, and i've forgotten your face. just a little bit, while the color fades away. and there's no one to tie your hair, you silly girl, because you run away every time i see you.
it's the grass you've never liked that i miss the most. and this serene spread of mist all over the mountain, hewing a waft of cool, wet air all over you.
and then was home. in the middle of woods and bricks -in a small lighted corner that i had once seen in my dreams. do you know what it smells like -this potion of mud and sweat drizzled with my patience? of course not.

because i know it is all about your proximity. and your disregard for distance. and your thumb twiddling tendencies to gravitate. calm down, little one, this is just the beginning.