and the moon is back again. in full force, after a sunny three week hiatus that worried me more than the rice farmers, it is now raining, effectively, all the time.
the latest update on the spacetime scene has our questionable protagonist moving, pathologically, once again. matt and i rented a filthy two-room concrete apartment for a thousand points monthly. it has a pretty maroon floor and we've expended 22 ounces of doctor bronner's favorite formula to tidy up it's full-spectrum vibrational presence.
we're going to be there for an eternal month, until matt heads to vipassana in madras/chennai and i welcome a suite (four) of lovely northwestern (hemispherically speaking) girls. for the first time in my hypercontinental adventures (now coming to eight months) i think i will have a kitchen.
to make dosa, naturally. overwhelming quantities of dosa. overdose. overdosa. overdosha. dosha, naturally, being the sanskrit term for "imbalance", used in ayurvedic shastras to describe all deviatons (quality, illness) our corporeal form endures in its ultimately illusional separation from pure satvic truth. an edgy, wet, and painful illusion that every moment teaches me how to engage with a compassionate presence while still smiling at the impermanence of it all.
there's nothing like aurobindo and rainy days to make that clear.
nothing except the infinite cycle of sa-ni-sa-ni-sa-ni that i can never seem to perfect on my bansuri.
nothing save the infinite cycle of "im learning", "i suck", "im learning", "i suck" that i can never seem to escape on my bansuri.
matt and mali are with me, separated by thin cubicle walls in the den of internet. my brother and my sister. the closest to me and the closest to me. and all i can feel is blessed. once again crushed by the weight of krishna's blessings, falling in large orange mangos and small red mangos and lank white men and beautiful malayali girls.
so, basically, this is all about Remya. sonnet still in progress and the homage of the eternal moment well underway.
Remya. Remya. posso escriver as lineas mais graciosas esta amanha. Remya.
we met at the margin-free market, under large yellow banners and tall shelves teeming with plastic.
she, who was one of many and yet, somehow, the only.
she who carried our basket with supple hands and policed our intents with watchful eyes.
oh, remya, how can an indian woman laugh?
oh, remy, how can an indian woman smile?
show us! show the world! show us the world!
lead us through lightbulbs whose compact florescents are but dim and expensive shadows of your own radiance.
lead us through mounds of airy markers which will dry up and crumble before your bindi and puja marks dream of smudging.
lead us through plastic clips for plastic clothelines and plastic cups for plastic buckets. lead to the paradise of home furnishing, to what it feel like finally to come home, for a month, but a month, and infinite month of writing and recording and singing and practicing.
remya! don't let them tell you that normal women smile or laugh or let their panjabis peek out from the folds of corporate smocks, for they do not.
remya! don't let them tell me that you can't negotiate with peons about the price or weight of candles, that we can't fold smiles out of monsoon evenings, for we can.
remya! how have you become that which we all roll towards? softly! how are you so nice! so beautiful! so normal! so carefree!
you, a sculpture of the one who reposes beyond and below, above and within, with no taint or runoff from the twisted knots of society...
do you eat? www.somethingconstructive.net/jamanta