Tuesday, July 15, 2014

The Letter

I’m not feeling strong yet, but I am taking
good care of myself. The weather is perfect.
I read and walk all day and then walk to the sea.
I expect to swim soon. For now I am content.
I am not sure what I hope for. I feel I am
doing my best. It reminds me of when I was
sixteen dreaming of Lorca, the gentle trees outside
and the creek. Perhaps poetry replaces something
in me that others receive more naturally.
Perhaps my happiness proves a weakness in my life.
Even my failures in poetry please me.
Time is very different here. It is very good
to be away from public ambition.
I sweep and wash, cook and shop.
Sometimes I go into town in the evening
and have pastry with custard. Sometimes I sit
at a table by the harbor and drink half a beer.


~Linda Gregg

Friday, July 11, 2014

Untitled

Today it has been eight months since they buried you. I hope you have chocolate where you are.

We think about you every day.

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

And then there were enchilladas

When J first came to this city a little more than seven years ago, Mexican food was the great divider. Part of it of course, was a simple craving; having been a California boy for all his adult years it was natural that Mexican food would be such a part of his habits that he couldn’t quite fathom going weeks and months without it. But partly it was just another way in which he, adventurer, follower of his heart, global enthusiast and fearless romantic, would be reminded that well, Bangalore was simply not home.

And yet, was that not part of its charm? Indeed it was. In those early days, he was taken up by everything he saw and experienced because it was a long way both physically and spiritually from the pounding surf of California. Also, our story was then still being written; even though we acknowledged an all-consuming and mystical attraction to each other, we didn’t know if the legal knots presented by his foreign citizenship would be too much to fight against.

So it went. There was this girl he had his heart set on, but meanwhile each day was a fresh circus of delights in this teeming city of ours. Graceful trumpet trees would catch his eye one moment, and life-threatening traffic would sap his energy the next. He met people who asked him the most inane questions (“do you find the culture different?”) but also formed long-lasting relationships with colleagues and friends. He went to weddings and participated in our festivals. He ate Indian food…and that’s where we can now hear the sound of a metaphorical squeal of the brakes.

Wednesday, July 02, 2014

A separation

July has dawned, lush and steamy. The loss of another friend has marked me again, like a tree has rings to mark its age.

When I am a hundred, how many rings will I have?

This loss, as it were, is perhaps not a loss at all. It is merely a smudging away, the beginning of the gradual fade that happens as each year passes.

And the rain each night.

Oh well. If the world is indeed round, I shall keep traveling. We will meet again, if you promise to stay where you are.
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