Do You See?
I’m not absconding, not MIA. It’s been mixed times.
My mom had a gall bladder surgery, a 5-hr long ordeal. For her age and body, this was huge. She is back home, eating, walking a little, but is still very weak. Right after she was out of observation at the hospital, I spoke to her. The clarity in her voice despite the meek tired tone surprised me.
“They dug five holes in my body. It was as though I could hear a hammer, chisel and drill echo throughout a wooden platform, through all five holes. Not painful, but a strange surreal sensation,” she said.
The body, wood. The mind, a light.
I was flabbergasted at the description of her Laparoscopic. That’s my mom!
Sent off the proofs of INTO THE MIGRANT CITY to Writers Workshop. Hopefully, the book will be out soon.
It’s tough to avoid market consumerism. Or is it really? Sent a belated birthday gift to my niece. She said a Barbie would be nice. For all my opposition to the cult of the abnormal female form, we shipped her a set — Barbie and her closet. My sis-in-law emailed me a photo of the product. It looked like Barbie just likes to arrange her clothes.
I’m still thinking why I couldn’t think of something else. A book, games, activity sets. We’ve given her all that. Anyway, what matters is her smiling face in the photograph. She is super happy.
“A poet’s job is not to write about love,” said an Afghan metal worker poet recently somewhere.
He’s right I think. A poet’s job is to feel love. Writing about love is never close to the real thing. And it spoils writing. Feeling love would be imperative for good writing. At best you can repeat after Bob Marley — is this love that I am feeling?
I wanted some 2-minute fame on social media (haha!). So I went and posted my bluesy photos and the title poem from BLUE VESSEL. Have a dekko. It won’t bite!
<When my hair and pimples had turned blue>
Like Pablo Neruda
I want the body of an island
Rust and free
Parts loafing in the surf
Or become a blue vessel
Of forgotten strife, a chipped wall
Of rose petal and lime spits on
A summer night when the river
Comes home all austere.
For our ripples to whisper
Elemental Odes about salt and sleep
Freshly dug up soil where
Limbs turn into blue vessels
Remains of graffiti
You or I etched on the body
Of our resident island. — NABINA DAS, 2012
The fame part was unclear. But we had some light moments.
So why no regular posts? Because I’m slow and have other deadlines to catch. A creative writing workshop planning coming up. Will write about that soon. Adios.