the girl who saw numbers

a one, a one, two, three, four

what could numbers signify?
what could they perhaps imply?
one, and two, and three and four,
were they spiritual or just impure?

through the night would she debate,
these numbers and what they indicate,
twice a day every day, number plates and the cricket score,
the only constant in her life, there they were - one, anna two, three and four.

and many theories did she hear,
from friends and foes and others dear,
imagination!, coincidence!, perhaps just the lack of sleep,
but she knew it as something more, a connect that went far more deep

and then there came another floating thought,
with the potential of a scarier plot,
a life long gone, a window to the past?
signals and signs, a historical forecast?

uneasy in her daily sleep till a voice did she begin to hear,
twas smooth and composed in tone - this wise credo of her fear,
"bullshit sista!, get a grip will ya dawg,
pickles and chips at night again.. bah! get up and go for a jog!"

"numbers are fiction y'all, they exist only in your head,
why would the spirits waste time on you once they're dead?
and if you must, consider it, a gesture of a gentle nudge,
the universe is troubled my child, we're 'this' close to holding a grudge"

"tighten up your game girl and lay of that chocolate mousse,
i've had it with your laziness! and your broken knee excuse,
O! so pissed am i, for this time its personal strife,
but he's a patient old fool, the Big G, he ordered me to count till five!"

huff and puff this chant continued till she broke down enough to cry,
in her sleep she begged for mercy and promised to give an honest try,
and thus ends happily this sorrow tale, one that shook her very core,
of the girl who saw the numbers - one, anna two, three and four.

TIME

oh time, my time, what use are you to me now?
passing me by, slipping as i sit still and watch you go,
we were in control were we not,
i the master, and you the muse.
sit still, wander, refresh, inspire,
you’re roles above, you knew only too well
but now you leave, severed and broken,
alone i stand, to dream of things to happen,
impossible! it seems, have i left it too late?
a new crutch i need, it might well be ‘fate’

The issue of a sliding door

So, i write this entry oscillating on the garden swing, enjoying the tangy march breeze and a healthy dose of mosquitoes. persistent goddamn mosquitoes. And to think that being chucked out of your own room doesn't really sound half as bad.

Well, blame it on her interior designer skills or just her plain compulsion at being a parent, my mother believed very strongly in the principle of a sliding door. Now this wasn't just any other sliding door mind you, it was a sliding door separating my room from the adjoining room occupied by my Jim Morrison worshiping, rebel without a cause, 20 year old kid sister. And while we did both reject this motion with great agitation, our pleas were swiftly overruled in name of better security and air ventilation.

With frosted glass for company, wafer thin blinds, and a fake wall of plywood holding the ‘door’ upright, this situation has been fodder to many a technical problem. Picture my delight when i made aware, that in my absence as a student in Bangalore, my room had been turned into a entertainment pad with the sliding door now serving the purpose of separating the ‘conversationalists’ with the ones who really wanted to ‘jiggy’. precious. A recliner with beer stains, and a pin-up board now stripped bare of my efforts over the last eight years, it was humbling to be back home on vacations.


The thin walls continued this torment as we grew older over the years. Now sitting at my bed at night, its hard not to overhear my sister’s repeated efforts at placating her friends, their girlfriends, their cousins, her ego, their egos. what not. and mind you, all of this while resting the phone skillfully on one ear, and as i recently discovered, on conference call with five other people. “Keep the voice low will ya!”, id shout to convey my displeasure. to which she’d say “Don’t you have someone to talk to at night? you do know its sorta free?”. Fair point id think, as i plug in my earphones and get back to the book I'm reading. who am i kidding really. sigh.

And while we’re on the topic of ear-phones, I’d say i am quite a patient listener. Give me my earphones and an ipod and im quite content to tap my foot, and hum at a respectable decibel level. All this until i decided to take up the guitar. By now, my more frequent attempts at enjoying the liberty of a full fledged performance in the comfort of my room is usually met with a “really? you’re actually gonna sing stuff like that?”. I guess I do understand her plight at some level. I mean, it would be tough for a teenager to be forced to listen to mediocre covers of Scarborough Fair, and Blowing in the Wind. We both love the 60’s and 70’s, yes sir. She for the Doors, Bob Marley, the wailers and the drugs, and me for their poorer docile cousins. So, on the off chance, that we’re both feeling a moment of inspiration, the door does give way to our own concocted version of woodstock. the neighbors never complain.

And i guess its this sort of flexibility that makes the concept of the ‘sliding door’ really work. Closed when we both need our space and time, and open when we’re ready to share, converse and ideate together. The fact is, that beyond the innumerable mistimed knocks, the desire for uninterrupted sleep, and my displeasure at our tastes in music, its great to be bound by three and not four walls everyday.

That said, being skillfully ejected out of my room on her 20th birthday (presumably by her friends who never got the memo of the big brother back in town) is not a habit i’ll be encouraging anytime soon.

Tom, Dick and Harry: Volume 3

AFTER HOURS:
**Pricky Dick





MORNING COFFEE
** Harlem Harry

Run

Run. I run for myself.
and I run for the crowds.
I run to see.
I run to search.
I run to forget.
I run to celebrate.
I run to lose.
I run to gain.
I run in fear.
I run in hope.
I run for change.
and I run away from change.

I run.