I was wrong about words… maybe

I feel saddened by words. For the first time I feel like they have failed – they weren’t able to fulfill their purpose to express, to explain, to clarify, to get across something. Last night, I could hear sounds flapping off my tongue, but it felt like learning to swim without water.

I, a self claimed “word smith”, I, a self proclaimed “writer” couldn’t find vowels and syllables to bring to conversation what was going on in my head and heart. I’ve realized why miscommunication can be fatal – words are a tricky bastard. I detest the ache I caused, born from my inability to be precise.

I was aware of the letters I chose, the sentence structure, the pain of making paper chains out of wet paper…but no matter how I tried, no matter how I rephrased – they weren’t sufficient. I couldn’t package them in the sounds that roll off my tongue, and so the delivery was all wrong.

There have been times when I’ve been speechless, but I finally understand now what it is to be at a loss for words. Language bridges us, it’s such an essential part of humanity and yet it’s so limiting. I’m frustrated that there is no word for what I wanted to say, I’m annoyed to be bound to the list in the dictionary, I’m distressed that, this too, has disappointed me.

And yet here I am, sitting down, writing because ultimately, maybe, a jumbling of the alphabet is all I have.

And here I am, deriving comfort from the click of my keyboard, and the silence echoing off what I write.

I dream in sound

Enclosed in my mind,
weightless (yet more than alive)
I feel the shape of me: eyes closed, arms raised, standing
<hypnotized>

in an auditorium
(not empty) but
filled with the souls of  strings, brass, and bass
I float on the notes that have not yet been composed

I hear feats of melodies –
(a euphoric cacophony)

and I am swept away knowing I can’t recreate
(not even in my memory)
the most beautiful of music

I hear half asleep.

Never to be hung on staffs and circles on lines
I mourn the fact that your ears
are not as blessed at mine,

that I cannot share
the sounds I dream.

I has the sads :(

My best friend left today. And I am sad.
The last time I saw her, I was on the other side of the world, I was about 10 kgs heavier, my hair was short, I was dating the wrong guy, I was confused , I had no job, no idea about where to go or what to do with life. I was a wreck.

This time, I’m ‘home’, I’ve come down to my normal (slightly squishy, never skinny) size, my hair tickles down most of my back, I’m with a man who always makes me laugh, I have a job I love, I’ve got life somewhat under control, I still don’t know where to go or what to do…but I am happy.

A lot has changed in the last two years, but in the last seven days we just spent together it’s clear our friendship hasn’t.

I still laugh more with her than I do with anyone else, we still take photos of ourselves making super silly faces, I can talk to her about everything (or just one thing) and she still listens, we’re still entirely predictable to each other, we can make confessions we’d never admit to others, we can discuss religion and our change in beliefs or disbeliefs, I still can’t lie to her about anything, we never feel the need to entertain each other but we’re unceasingly entertained, and we could never ever ever replace each other.

But a list does no good…sometimes a song says it better:

I miss her 😦

tea for cramps

milky mug of blue
your clay curves exude
the warmth of my lover’s hands
rested on my belly
which tightens – cursed by cramps

the musk of your taste
moves to the roof of my mouth
and liquid comfort swirls to my swollen womb
bloated with the pain of twisted fallopian tubes

so I drink your sweetened brew
of leaves and sugar cubes
the love of my teapot’s concoction
held with both hands,

unlike the melty brown compassion
of a sweeter companion
whose care is half-hearted
and takes revenge in my waist’s expansion.

Moving in waves of shades

I remember phases of my life by color. As a child, I was quite taken up with red. It was the color of life and I found myself going through a succession of red shoes. In fact I can effortlessly fall back to my six-year-old mindset where I had made plans of buying the same red boots in bigger sizes for as long as I reached adulthood. (And then, of course, the same pair would suffice.)
Red: energetic, carefree, bold, daring,

I believe it was my tenth birthday when a red shirt found itself wrapped and presented to me that I discovered my dislike of the hue. I, in effect, put a ban on the color and found myself wearing blues and greens. But I couldn’t answer to, “What is your favorite color?” and that saddened me because as a kid, the response was so telling of a person – my lack of answer left me feeling incomplete. As an emerging adult, I find the question of color has taken a back seat, but it’s one I inevitably come to if I want to know you.

As I settled into teenage doubt I decided it was high time for me to have a favorite color, to color in my identity it would seem. It seemed ridiculous that at 13 I didn’t have a shade to claim. I knew red wasn’t an option, green/blue seemed bleh… and seeing as pink was up and coming, I was already a tad bit non-conformist but not so much that I wanted to be too far from the norm, and so I settled for a compromise in purple.

I believe the shade the royals once owned dominated most of my high school years, and almost all gifts bought for me ranged from lavender to violet. I forcefully made the color my own, but somehow I knew it wasn’t the right fit.
Purple: unique, somehow unaccepted, conflicted, difficult to coordinate, forced,

Somewhere in college, after years of shade-shifting, I stumbled upon the most beautiful color of all and besides the time I clomped around in red boots with teddy bears, I could proudly and truthfully exclaim my favorite color: emerald green.

Emerald just gleamed to me and though my closet could be matched to a jumbo box of crayons, I was precarious of purchasing emerald. For some reason the color was special and so brilliant that it couldn’t be brought down to being common and splashed on just anything.

Emerald, I saved. Emerald, I savored. Emerald, I cared for and cradled. Emerald, I love.
Emerald: vibrant, confident, fitting, uncommon

Though in love with a color so deep and rich, I found my closet dominated by grays, browns, whites, and blacks. At one point I had toyed with the idea of them as “favorite” colors, but they always fell on “safe” and “staples”. They ended up being the base colors on my hangers and the re-welcomed red, the special greens, and a touch of blues and purples found themselves in scarves, shoes, and jewelry: my essential accessories.

Two years since I’ve been ‘home’ I find the contents of my shelves are faded remains of brighter outfits and the conservative outer self I become for the streets of Kathmandu is left feeling rather unsatisfied.

I’m trying to remember, but numbers don’t come easy, I’ve been wearing black straight for how many days exactly? And so here I am,  my clothes have blended into the mix of all color or lack of color (depends on how you look at it), and I fight it because ‘black’ has eternally been my mother’s. (Am I shifting to being more of her? More of her daughter? More color in the illusion it garners?)
Black: comfortable, flexible, manageable, workable, satisfactory, encompassing

What color is next? And what will that say about me?

In the words of Tracy Jordan from 30 Rock, “I can’t change, I’m like a chameleon: always a lizard.”
haha.

One can hope

time fell through our age
your hands held my wrinkled face,
and on my weary breasts your head laid

you loved in my words
and I, in your laughter
ten, fifty, innumerable years after.

Google me this…

Let me preface this post by stating that I am easily entertained. That being said, here is a list of my favorite Google searches which have directed lost souls to my blog (my comments follow in brackets).

Enjoy, because I did:
daughter first period cramps (yes, because on here, you will find all the advice needed to deal with a teenager and her period induced confusion/angst)
now it haunts me (my blog does?!!)
man and woman full body together people in photos (kinda sweet… but what does this have to do with my blog?)
lip jobs black people (for three easy payments of $100.00 each, I’ll send you tutorials)
why do I pass gas when I’m mentrating? (If anyone knows… please enlighten me, especially if you know what “mentrating” is)
what makes me feel euphoric in a sentence (I’ll say it in a word: drugs)
diamond memory lane schematics (what?)
hot ladyboy (YOU KNOW IT!)
are nepalese men cold hearted (why are you asking Google?)
funny bathroom signs (something I should def write about)
handcuff to bed (never mind… THIS is what I need to write about)
hd mouth (because, that’s something we ALL look for at some point in our lives.. in hd)

Annnnnnnnnd since I LOOOOoooooOOOOOOoooooVE lists, my top five:
5) bengali armpit (EPIC… but why is anyone Googling this?)
4) what would be considered high tea apparel for men (good question)
3) no clothes women (this is clearly where to come for naughty subliminal messages in terrible grammar)
2) neck (yeps. neck. that’s it. neck.)
1) a man with a thick mustache (hells. effing. yes.)

There you have it ladies and gentle-boys, what people are looking for and the clearly questionable content of my blog which lands them here.
In my thoughts.
Freaky.

I’m getting too old for things…

I understand that I’m “too old” for playgrounds and the ball pit (but oh how I love the ball pit!).. but it makes me UBER sad that I’m also “too old” to be a participant for this:

(And this is the part where I copy paste EVERYTHING to save you a click or two…( maybe…), SO.. if you’re *sigh* “young” enough.. do it up and apply, sounds puuuuurdy fantastish to moi. (Yes, I speak French! or not. whatever.)

SUMMER SCRAWLS is a collaborative writing project (aimed at those of you who’ve just finished your SLC exams) and will culminate in a handmade literary journal produced entirely by participants. If you are enthusiastic about writing and wish to share your creative juices with a group of dynamic, young writers, join us in an experimentation that uses words and language as tools for self expression.

For two weeks, you will get the… opportunity to participate in intensive writing workshops, embark on mini-excursions around Kathmandu, watch and discuss films and documentaries, gain exposure to different forms of media and interact with young “experts” who are making a living off their passion and creativity.

Participants will be introduced to a variety of writing forms including:

poetry
fiction
non-fiction
mixed genres

Participants will also try to widen readership by learning to write for specific audiences which will include

writing for community engagement
writing for children
writing for friends and family
writing for self
writing for the anonymous reader

If you want to pursue your interest in writing in whatever capacity, spend this summer dabbling with words. Scrawl away!

Apply by downloading the application form from http://sattya.org/collective/2011/04/summerscrawls/. Send your applications to ayushma@ventzine.com

Applications will be accepted until the 22nd of April.

Participation fee is Rs. 2,000 and will include fees for all sessions and materials, transport during excursions, and light snacks during the day. Participants are requested to bring their own lunch.

(Partial scholarships available for a limited number of seats: do not shy away from applying due to financial reasons. Just write to us explaining why we should give you a scholarship and we’ll get back to you.)

Information on facilitators:
Ayushma Regmi lives in the outskirts of Kathmandu and likes to think of herself as a villager. She dreams of a world where people don’t have careers or passports and where everything is without a name. Always looking for a job but never fully employed, she juggles her time between dubious kitchen experiments and V.E.N.T! Magazine and has facilitated a number of creative writing programs including the Scribble Wibble project. If things work according to plan, Ayushma would eventually like to open a school in a real village somewhere in Nepal where she can teach, learn, grow her own food and milk cows.

Shreya Thapa is currently a correspondent at Republica National Daily but that says little to nothing about her. She is happiest when stuffing her face, and is even more pleased should eating happen in the company of intelligent, funny, inspiring, people. Her favorite kind of learning happens outside of educational institutions and she is saddened by the cruel truth that she will never know everything.

Picky

I went to a free skin consultant at Clinique once. The baby -faced, pimple-free skin expert informed me that I had “combination skin”. But… I…knew…that… I’ve known that for years because come morning, the sides of my nose have enough oil to deep fry chicken but other parts of my face are flaky dry. Thus… “combination” …

Today, I woke up and wiped the “T-zone” only to find the wiping agent (my hand), was left with a fine sheen of grease (I’m not fancy enough for tissues and the likes). Mmmm. Hours later I was informed of the dry skin on my nose. (The “under-nose”… as in, it’s still my nose but the underside of it, like the bridge between my nostrils… you know what I mean, you’ve got it too.)

“Oh yeah, I’ll put some lotion on it,” I said with full intentions of doing so. But on my way to the office I found myself playing with the underside and feeling hardened dry skin begging to be picked at. So I complied.

Walking down a busy part of Kathmandu, lost in thought, half minding the traffic, fingers busy in the nasal region – I was a happy little honey bee.

I got to work, sat down and after a while noticed that my hand has found its way back to my under-nose and was rather busy with the scratching, scraping, pulling, and peeling of dry skin. (What is it about picking at scabs and peeling dry skin that is utter *bliss*?)

Then it dawned on me… I must have totally looked like I was picking my nose. Not that there is anything wrong with that…. I am daily a witness to people with fingers on serious excursions up their nostrils, I just feel like nose picking is something to be saved for bathroom time, family and close friends.

Realizing I must have looked odd, I did what any sensible 21st century girl would do and pulled out my hand mirror. I was met with a reflection of scraps of peeling skin roughening my otherwise smooth under-nose (… and a hairy reminder on my upper lip about that visit to the beauty parlor I’ve been meaning to make).

The half-peeled thing I had going on looked pretty unattractive, so, mirror in hand I set my finger nails into tweezers mode to catch flaps of dead epidermis. A final glance would show a job well done… except now my nose is tinged in red and a little sore…

I would dwell on this except I found churpi in my pocket and that makes me happy. Also, please don’t ask why, of the millions of thoughts I have per day, THIS is what makes it on here. Not sure if I needed a segue to how finding churpi made me happy or… I don’t know.

Bleh.

Leave me alone.

Dancing in the past

I tried to write a poem, about
“tiptoeing in the past”
because I liked the sounds
clicking
on
my
tongue.

But then I realized, I had one line I liked
– with nothing else to say,
I gave up.

Instead I’m left with an image of delicate feet,
flowly skirts,
soundlessly
leaving swirly prints
in the dust.