Before all else
there is water—
from which to fish
for flowers and failure.
What hope, to find
the handful of earth
that steadies. That
grows into rocks
and coastal shelves. Read more
I am tired of governments.
I am tired of this one, and the one across the border.
I am tired of borders. Read more
This is not an invitation
to breathe the air
— of another century.
Neither stale, nor musty,
I imagine dust that has never Read more
“He was only for the joyous days, the days of courage, when she could share with him all the good things he brought with his passion for novelty and change. But he knew nothing of her; he was no companion to her sadness. He could never imagine anyone else’s mood, only his own. His own were so immense and loud, they filled his world and deafened him to all others. He was not concerned to know whether she could live or breathe within the dark caverns of his whale-like being, within the whale belly of his ego.”
― Anaïs Nin, Ladders to Fire
“All the trees in the world are journeying somewhere. Perpetual pilgrimage. Remember, when we were on our way here, to this city, the trees traveling past the windows of our railroad car? Remember the twelve poplars conferring about how to cross the river? Read more
“Well, let it pass; April is over, April is over. There are all kinds of love in the world, but never the same love twice.”
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, “The Sensible Thing” in The Short Stories
When I was twelve I fell in love with Amanda. She played basketball, had a chic (for the ‘90s) ‘mushroom’ haircut, and the widest, most gleeful smile. Stricken by indecision even then, I faithfully divided my affection between three others—Joyce, Feli, and someone whose name, decades on, utterly fails me. I wasn’t alone on this tender tour de force. At my convent school in Shillong, girls had crushes on other girls (usually their seniors) all the time. Read more
I heard my first stories from a woman who couldn’t read or write.
A small, stout lady with a soft, full moon face ringed by silver tresses. Dark once, always worn in a bun, fat, plump, perched on the back of her head like a dinner roll. The colour of her hair might be the only thing that’s changed dramatically over the years; her face, as far as I can remember, has always been intensely lined. A coastal shelf of experience.