Apr 27, 2013 Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Poetry
Birthed / Breathed / Bridged
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 27th, 2013
The question always remains:
Am I truly their child?
They brought me into their home
Poured love into my being
Gave me roots to dig deep into
Gave me sunlight to grow in
Breathed life into my struggling lungs
Held me and loved me
Stood vigil by my bed
While I, asthma-racked and
In the grip of death,
Nearly toppled headlong
Into oblivion.
They pulled me back
From the brink,
And kissed me awake.
They are my parents.
I shall always love them.
And yet, and yet,
There’s a faint echo
Of that other mother
Of that other father
The ones who stand forever
In the shadows of my past
Who remain forever and always
Enigmatic and tongue-tied.
Whose profiles, half-turned from me
Reveal … indifference?
Disgust? Rage? Sorrow? Regret?
Was there love there, somewhere?
Or was I begotten in haste,
And mourned since?
I look yearningly into the shadows
See an emptiness in there
Bridged with a bridge of steel
And silk, which brought me
Safely into my parents’ arms.
Terror opens a chasm within me.
My breath fails me.
My pulse stumbles.
I cannot help it — I yearn
To topple into that gulf and
Seek the bottom of a grief
With no name.
I force myself to look up,
Ahead, not down, and see,
In wonder and understanding.
Across that gulf, beyond those dim profiles
I glimpse the outline of another one —
A Someone who beamed
Me into being, who breathed me out.
She held me across the span of Time
And tided me through the fjords
That might have stopped me
She wanted me to be.
She wanted me to be me.
And I am.
That bridge of steel and silk
Brought me safely to shore.
And my parents will stand guard
Right there, at that bridge
And they will deny that chasm
Its greedy need.
And they will spread a net
under the bridge
And they will fight the ogres
That dwell beneath.
And I want them to.
And though I shall always wonder
About the bottom of that chasm
And yearn for the shadow-parents
I will not yield to temptation.
For nothing is more tempting than
Grief and yearning,
And nothing more dangerous.
So, I shall step forth
With light step and light heart,
Knowing my bridge of silk and steel
Will remain for all time.
And I shall go forth to build
My own bridge, and stand guard there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Chasm, #Love, #NaPoWriMo, #Original Poem, Adopted child, bridges and birth, character vignette, fiction, Fictional character, silk and steel, vigil, Yearning
Apr 11, 2013 Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Poetry
The Enemy
Or: To a Non-Friend
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 11th, 2013
This is the day I was surprised.
It’s not my skin-tingling recoil
That surprised me when I saw you.
It’s not my memory of all
The little jabs and major stabs
That you aimed so casually and
So shamelessly at my open
Heart through all these years that we had
Passed each other grim, unsmiling.
It’s not your mockery and your
Usual barely suppressed malice
Which made me stop in my tracks and
Caused me almost to forget
Forget the injuries, insults …
Incalculable pain that you’ve
Caused me, making me want to die,
Washing the rocks on some hillside.
No, it’s not any of those things.
It’s that today, you were not well.
And, in sickness, your laughter bloomed.
You were vulnerable, you were
Shorn of bluster, you were truly
There, truly true, truly open.
You were without defense, or hate.
And you were giddy, funny, good.
And I felt for you a great rush
Of affection, of empathy,
Which bore me away on fair winds
Which made me laugh with you today.
Which made me feel for you, for you,
Of all people, you, who have hurt,
Insulted, derided, questioned,
Rumored, destroyed, rebuilt, torn down.
You altered your face. No longer
Bitter nor hateful, no longer
Jealous nor spiteful. You were real.
You were funny. You were open.
Laughing, you changed all you had been
For one moment, in the blessing
Of the spring, the sunshine pouring
Down on us, through ceilings and roof.
This is what surprised me today.
~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #NaPoWriMo, altered, empathy, Friendship, Hurt, Laughter, mockery, Pain, sunshine, surprise
Apr 7, 2013 Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Poetry
Portrait of a Fake
©By Vijaya Sundaram
April 7th, 2013
It’s in her eyes, you understand.
Her eyes that hold the mistrust, the dark fears,
The resentment, the self-deluding lies.
Too frightened to turn inward and read what’s
Held in the abysmal depths of her heart.
It’s in the insincere smile, the tinkling laugh,
The worried look, the cold self-absorption
That mark her every utterance, her tone,
Messaging deceit too light to notice,
As she slithers forward like a cobra.
She holds her grudges, she clings to anger.
She knows no other way, for her very
Self was build on these, too far from childhood
Take those away, and not much is left there.
Just a void with remnant strands of realness.
So, perhaps those resentments and grudges
Those fake-friendly words and insincere smiles
Are fine as they are, for who can face the
Awful truth of one’s own emptiness and
Remain standing, exposed, and in one piece?
Perhaps it would be better, though, to melt
Away into nothingness, perhaps to
Die and reshape oneself into a new
More real, truer self, unpropped by ego
And held aloft by a true love for all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Love, #NaPoWriMo, #Rebirth, #Truth, deceit, Ego-centrism, falsitude, inward, realness, reshaping self, void
Mar 31, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Short Stories
Beloved Conman–A Vignette
©By Vijaya Sundaram
Past midnight, March 31st / early April 1st, 2013
He was a conman.
He lived to convince. He exuded confidence. He was absolutely and utterly right, all of the time.
He didn’t know it. They never do, those conmen. How else would they convince anyone else of their sincerity, unless they had already bought their own story? They buy their own stories so fully that they would be hurt, surprised, outraged that their story could be anything but true.
He had the smile of an angel. He loved others, so it seemed. They loved him back, fully, devotedly, forgivingly.
Sometime early in his youth, he had been betrayed by life. And although he wasn’t the type to nurse long-standing grudges against people, he had held a grudge against life. Life owed him, you see. It owed him, and all it had ever done was take from him.
So he took revenge, and took from life.
Unfortunately, others, real people, living beings, were often hurt by his decisions. He rode, rough-shod, over people’s advice, proferring his own, convinced he was right. And when he was wrong, as he often turned out to be, in his business dealings, which resulted in huge losses for others, and lost fortune for his family, he found many, many convincing, frighteningly plausible excuses.
Everyone, but everyone bought his story. They were moved by his angelic smile, his baby-faced sweetness. Often, however, when he wasn’t aware, his son caught a glimpse of deep sadness, a regret that was so monumental that she was sure his spirit was struggling, dying under the punishing weight of so many errors of judgement, so many tragedies wrought by his confidence in what he was doing, and his still-convincing story of why things had not worked out.
Admitting that one is wrong is painful. Admitting that one has been wrong one’s whole life can be devastating.
What can one take with one at the end, before the final curtain?
A story? The truth? The unsaid things? The heart-break?
For you see, when he tried, sometimes, to venture to suggest that he had been wrong, everyone rushed to reassure him that it had not been his fault. No one could bear to cause him more heartbreak than he had already endured.
He was saved from being totally disingenuous. He had a sense of humor. He could make everyone laugh, make people happy, make people glow with pleasure when he praised them.
He had helped many. He had a kind heart. He forgave easily. He saw the best in others. He had an elephantine memory, a gigantic intellect. He was all of these things, and more. He was both orthodox and free-thinking, bound by tradition regarding his life and wife, but eager to have his children break free of them. He was quick to anger, but equally quick to apologize for his anger. He was affectionate and gave hugs easily, and was cuddly with his children.
His beaming face attracted everyone. Wherever he went, he drew the attention of people, who saw in him a saint, or a sage, and if they thought about it, they would have said that he was Santa Claus personified.
He had been a good son and brother. He had helped his parents out and had them stay with him and his family in the twilight of their years; he had helped his four brothers get high-paying jobs, he had arranged for his three sisters to have good marriages, and had created a beautiful working atmosphere for his underlings at work.
He knew he had been good. He had done all that he was supposed to do. Now, in his middle years, he felt like taking his risks. What was life for?
So, he leaped into calamity, eyes closed, and all of his ventures ended in disaster. He had to flee abroad to make money. No one knew where he had gone, until a letter arrived. His family had to make do, selling away their gold or silver, books or furniture, whittling their life down to essentials.
Then, he returned. And he tried to do the right thing. Except that he failed again and again. A demon seemed forever hunched over his back, digging its talons into his fate.
He sorrowed secretly. Perhaps, he told his wife about his sorrows. No one knew, and his wife certainly wasn’t about to share anything. Secrecy was her middle name. Outwardly, he maintained his bonhomie and confidence. He continued to weave the myth of his life, with tales rewritten for easy digestion by his listeners. Everyone suspected that he was conning them, but there was enough honesty and humor that they revised their opinion.
If one looked carefully, there was regret being etched into the leathery skin around his eyes, his liquid eyes that were wide and innocent, but in unguarded moments, shrouded in secrecy, removed and disconnected from whoever was looking at him. He looked inward, and what he saw he did not like.
And if one continued to watch him undercover, one would notice that his face would lighten, and the lines would fade away, and his smile would come from the depths of his soul — for he saw something else there that he did like.
Through all the loss of fortune, the calamities he had heaped upon his family, his wife, his siblings, his friends, he knew he had done something else.
He had, just by being his beaming self, spread happiness.
So what if he had conned everyone around him about his mistakes? So what if he had deliberately taken risks with his family’s savings, and risked his children’s future? So what that he had sold his family’s gold and diamonds, copper and silver? So what if he had taken out massive loans that his children had to pay back?
So what that some others, faceless and unknown to his family, had their fortunes squandered by his partners whom the conman had trusted with their fortunes? There is no one more gullible than a conman, and one would laugh at that, if it weren’t so tragic.
No doubt that the faceless unfortunates had cursed him in several languages. No doubt that they wished ill upon him and his family, so that his sons would suffer, and his sons’ sons would suffer. No doubt that they had been destroyed by his and his partner’s risk-taking and their deliberate playing with their money. The conman never benefited from any of this. His family spiralled down into penury, and stayed poor. The conman must have been racked by guilt, but he sent cheerful letters home, describing the places where he’d been, and the people he’d met.
Then he came home, and several tragedies occurred. Losses, deaths, more losses, ill-health. That’s a different story for a different time. The tragedies, however, brought him back and kept him closer to his wife and children. The conman’s face had become marked by suffering, which simply vanished when he smiled. It was as if a boulder had been removed, and the light streamed into a cave that had been shut.
But still, the conman’s children grieved in their own way when the conman suffered, and the conman grieved when he saw his children grow older and take on their own mantles of suffering, unique in their way.
There is no balm for the soul of a parent who watches her or his child struggle and fail, struggle and be hurt, over and over again.
But his children forgave him long ago, though. They had loved him. Each had nursed some anger, but dealt with it separately, privately. Anger is heavy. Some deal with the burden of it. Some shift it from side to side. Some put it down, and walk away, leaving it to disintegrate into atoms.
It was easy for his children and his wife to put it down and walk away. They had bought the conman’s mythology. Each played a role in the Greek tragedy of his life, some willing, and some unwilling, participants.
He made it easy for them. He had always been loving and lovable, and scattered his lightness of spirit in different ways. Each child received some part of his genius, the only wealth he could give.
And his wife? She was glad that she had him, finally, in the twilight of his years. He was bed-ridden now, but he was finally hers, not anyone else’s.
For although she saw through his tricks, she had always loved him. He was the heart of her heart, the joy of her life, the one to whom she had given her eternal, unshakeable love.
And he knew it, and wanted her to go with him when he went.
But that was where she drew the line. She refused. The children needed her.
And so he went, fighting death the whole way. Life had cheated him out of many things, too many to enumerate. Disease claimed him, as it seems to claim everyone in this world.
And perhaps, he saw the truth, shining and clear, like a fixed star, before he went. He stared, mesmerized into space, seeming to commune with certain Ones.
And then he went, transparent and peaceful, and everyone stood at his bedside, held his hands, gave him their love, and sent him on his way.
And he was received lovingly into the spirit world, by those of his siblings who had gone on, whom he loved and continued to love, where he and his parents, and his brothers and his sisters were one family again — which is perhaps what he’d always wanted.
And his wife and children carried on, perpetuating the myth of the man he had been.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Family, character sketch, conman portrait
Mar 30, 2013 Awake in Dream Time - Journal Entries about the almost real, the surreal and the unreal, Character Vignettes for Possible Novels, Original Short Stories
Loneliness — A Vignette
©By Vijaya Sundaram
March 30th, 2013
The old woman sat, enshrouded in sadness and loneliness.
Her spirit was young, gay, schoolgirilish. Her mind was brilliant, but old. Her heart was carunculated, folded over and over by memories of grief, loss, hatred, jealousy and despair. Her body, though old, was strong, and her face was beautiful, like a translucent paper-covered lamp.
She had always been on the outside looking in. She had never fully understood herself. She understood others, but as an alien might, through long observation, experimentation, attempts to blend in with the locals, and even achieving a measure of success in that, but always with a sense of strange isolation. Humor and a biting wit had sustained her through all that. Faith gave her some comfort, but her mind always interfered.
She was generous with her gifts, but longed for acknowledgement, which she felt she had never got, at least, not enough.
She took care of herself, never imposed on anyone, was independent, hard-working, good and moral. She gave of herself to all who came to her. She sought, and got, contradictions, arguments, verbal sparring. She loved that, but didn’t understand that it distressed others. She was often critical, very critical of others, because no one could match her standards, not even she. This left her feeling desolate and always dissatisfied.
She could never stand anyone for too long. People irked her. They felt like burrs on her clothing, clinging madly, like little irritants, feeling poky and interfering. Yet, it was she who would long for their company, and would ask for it. Now, they bothered her at every turn. She felt as if they interfered, but it was she who interfered when she had a chance to, correcting others, expecting a weird sort of subservience, and hating it at the same time, positively glowing with impish delight when she caused distress of some kind, or disturbed people’s equanimity.
She was a mass of contradictions: A pillow stuffed with confidence and anxieties, pleasures and sorrows, losses and grief, indifference, affection, detachment and attachment, delight and irritation, love and hate.
And she was the loneliest person on the planet. Always, in her mind, her own dead mother’s voice spoke, critical and caustic, seemingly unloving and cold with a Puritan coldness.
The tragedy was that the old lady didn’t love herself. And though she felt herself to be the loneliest person on the planet, she was loved. She just didn’t fully know it, and always rejected a little while after she encountered it. After all, or so it seemed to her, if others loved her, then they didn’t really have any good taste, because she was unlovable. Therefore, she could reject them with ease.
Now, in the closing darkness of the noon, she longed again to be understood. She called her son, and got her daughter-in-law.
Her daughter-in-law, inexplicably, loved her. They both loved one other, even though they each might have got on the other’s nerves from time to time. They spoke. The old lady stated her thoughts about what she had been through recently. Her daughter-in-law assured her that everything would be all right, and reassured her of the love of her children for her. After a few sweet reminiscences about other things, the old lady said goodbye and hung up.
And after that ‘phone call, the daughter-in-law knew this much: Her mother-in-law had achieved a lot in her life, but all that had faded away with the onset of years. Age is a thief, an inexorable, ruthless and hateful thief. It takes away and takes away. When the daughter-in-law was young, she thought it would be lovely to grow old. Perhaps, for some, it might be, but she saw, first-hand that this romanticising of age was just that: A romantic notion. Age was cruel. Loneliness looms large. Loss and sadness linger.
For the sad truth remains: All of one’s achievements are naught beside the huge, pervasive threat of imminent amnesia and death.
So it is with the old lady, and so it will be for all of us, except, perhaps, those who seek immortality through art and music, because, as Nabokov said about Lolita in his immortal, shocking, dark and deeply moving book: I am thinking of aurochs and angels, the secret of durable pigments, the refuge of art. And this is the only immortality that you and I may share, my Lolita.
Finally, this: Ozymandias by P.B. Shelley.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Age, #Death, #Loneliness, #Love, Amnesia, Despair, immortality through art, Long Life, Nabokov, Ozymandias