May 25, 2016 Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings, Uncategorized
Because I was, so to speak, knee-deep (not really, but it sounds better that way) in cow manure and compost and nice, fragrant earth, preparing beds for planting roses on one side, and planting peas and carrot seed in prepared beds on the other side of our hilly front yard. Last week, I’d planted bush beans and pole-beans in two prepared beds, but things got in the way, and I didn’t get to do more.
Preparing beds for planting vegetables is more back-breaking work than I’d realized. I mean I’ve done it only a few times before (my husband did it most of the time while I was teaching in school), and I’d forgotten how hard it is to turn the earth, to hoe and dig, and pull up deep-rooted weeds that spread under the top beds and add good, organic compost.
Until this year, I’ve tended to water, weed and harvest things from our garden , but hadn’t done the other hard work that is so pleasurable to do, and also so time-consuming. And of course, I planted lots of bulbs and small flowering plants and such in the fall, but somehow, that didn’t make me feel as tired as this work did (and that was tiring enough!)
This year, the garden is my responsibility from start to finish, it seems to me.
I love it.
This is my long explanation for why I haven’t done any real writing today. Well, another added reason was that I spent much of last night dealing with Holly, who had become violently sick from her vaccinations yesterday. After four or five hours of broken sleep, lots of cleanup and disinfecting, tending to sick dog, reassuring her, doing laundry, and so on, I was a wreck this morning. Then, the vet called (we’d left a message yesterday night), and said we could come in with Holly and have her looked at at 10:30 a.m.
I drove my poor, dehydrated darling to the vet, where I found she’d lost a whole pound in a single night. They gave her fluids, gave her anti-nausea meds, and she came home quite cheerfully. All fine for the rest of the day. I made her squishy rice with potato and apple, and added chicken broth to it. She ate like one starved. Later, she ate rice with yogurt at three separate times. I think she’s totally back to normal, although she did not touch her dry dog-food. The amount of worry and stress that my sick dog can generate in me surprises me. I fretted over her as if she were a baby of mine (well, she is).
Then came all that gardening I mentioned above. The sun beat down on me today, and I felt somewhat light-headed from all the work, the heat, the lack of sleep, and from my earlier worry about my dog. A big jar of lemonade, and a watermelon popsicle, and a long, soothing shower later, I was somewhat restored.
After that, we had to get ready to go and fete my husband’s brother’s son (okay, our nephew) who had just graduated from college. My father-in-law and step mom-in-law had generously offered to host us all to celebrate our nephew’s graduation. There were ten of us at the venue (my family, my brother-in-law’s family, my nephew’s maternal grandmother, and my father-in-law and his wife). It was a lovely evening, despite a long wait outside the restaurant, because all of us showed up a little late, and our table was taken. Still, it afforded us time to chat and be heard, which was harder once we were inside the restaurant. The food was good, and we managed to hear each other above the din. After a nice evening, we headed home to our ecstatic dog.
Once home, we hung out and listened to John Lee Hooker, Howlin’ Wolf and others singing the blues. Then, we sang 16th century madrigals as we do almost every night, and sent our daughter off to bed.
I still have chores, so many chores. I am tired.
But happy.
All is well.
I have nothing profound to say, for I’m profoundly tired.
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Tags: #DogWoes, #Family, #Gardening, #Graduation
Sep 30, 2015 Original Short Story, Writing 101
For my Day 17 post, I searched my old blog for drafts, and found these two things. The first was a draft (ADDENDUM: I found out after checking my private blog just now, that I had published that piece with a different title and opening — so I just took the draft form of it, and added 39 words to it).
As for the second one, I added 2,453 words to its already long 1444-word long draft.
The first (to which I added 39 words):
Refuse to Comply
©June 6th, 2013
By Vijaya Sundaram
With apologies to M.K. Gandhi ( who said, “First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win”), I humbly state this:
First, they notice you.
Then, they respect you.
Then, they woo you with an offer you cannot refuse.
Then, you lose.
Refuse to comply if it insults your intelligence and your aesthetic and moral sense.
Refuse to comply if it is false.
Refuse to comply if it belittles others.
Refuse to comply, especially if untold wealth is promised you.
Refuse to comply, if it diminishes you.
Refuse to comply if it goes against righteousness.
~ Dreamer of Dreams
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Below is the second piece, a draft of a story that I began on June 10, 2014 (on my other blog), but never completed, and never published, and to which I added 2,453 more words today:
Teddy’s Roses
©September 29th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Fat Teddy Marino was a fat, jolly old man of sixty-five, and hopelessly provincial.
He had no real concept of a world beyond his very small, narrow one. He didn’t believe in Climate Change, drove a big red SUV, spent winters in Florida, grew hydrangea and roses and other flowers (all of which he fertilized with industrial fertilizer) in his immaculately kept front yard that was covered with weed-killer-sprayed grass. He grew tomatoes and beans, bought from Home Depot, in his back yard, kept a house cat who looked with baleful yellow eyes at passersby from between the dark drapes of their living room window, and had a wife who never seemed to step out-of-doors. He sported a cheerful grin, though his eyes scanned everything inquisitively, as he sat on his deck, and watched the cars go by.
He had always been known as “Fat” Teddy, even since he was a little boy. He didn’t seem to mind, though perhaps, long ago, he might have minded. He might have run home, crying from elementary school, when the other kids teased him for being plump. He might have been ingratiating and a bit of a gossipy tattle-tale in middle school, when he learned that some teachers liked the carriers of tales and gossip, He might have nursed grievances and grudges against all the athletic, slim guys who got all the girls in High School.
It didn’t matter now. Fat Teddy, from working in his father’s convenience store making a small income, went on to undreamed-of riches. He had come into an inheritance when he was twenty-three, the lucky recipient of a reclusive uncle, who had made a small fortune in scamming the gullible, and decided that the least-regarded of his nephews would receive the full benefit of his generosity when he died.
So, Fat Teddy didn’t work another day in his life, except that he would tell you that he was always hard at work, taking care of his home, his yard, his flowers, his finances. He had become something of a financial wizard, multiplying the money that he had inherited, playing the stock market. He spent his afternoons tending to his roses, or hydrangea, or lilies, or daffodils, hyacinths, irises and tulips, according to their season. He put up a large, white fence around his large, two-acre backyard and a hedge running around his property at the front of his house. He always had his curtains drawn, so that no one could look in. He had his many-roomed house and property properly secured with the proper alarm systems, surveillance cameras, and so on. He had a gardener who came once a week, a cook who came every day during the week, but not on weekends, and a succession of maids, who always left in a hurry, after not tendering their notices.
And he had a wife, whom he nursed with the utmost care and love.
For Fat Teddy’s wife was wheelchair-bound, debilitated by the unrelenting progress of a cruel disease. Fat Teddy loved her dearly, and would do anything for her, despite that she had turned into a horrible shrew, who screamed curses at the maids and threw things at them when she was in a truly desperate mood.
Fat Teddy’s provincial nature was known to all in the neighborhood. He believed that his town was the best, his church was the best, his religion was the best, and his politics were the best. He gave to his charities, to his church, to his political party, and to causes he believed in. He believed that he would need to protect himself and his wife from intruders, and had a burglar alarm installed. He also owned a gun, for which he had a legal license, and in the use of which he had been schooled.
His neighbor, Kevin, who had just moved into the neighborhood a few months ago, would politely say “hello” to him every morning or evening when he saw him in the front yard, which was near the sidewalk, and would try to jog on. Fat Teddy would look up, if he were clipping roses, smile a beaming smile at Kevin, and immediately engage him in chat. Groaning inwardly, poor Kevin, a tall, gentle, beautiful man with the slightest hint of epicanthic folds in his eyes, and elegant eyebrows, would stop and allow himself to be assaulted with a few minutes of absolute stupidity.
“Neighborhood’s going to the dogs, isn’t it?” Fat Teddy would say, cheerfully, not seeing a glassy look come into the eyes of his interlocutor. “First that slant-eyed Chinese couple moved in, and then that Indian family, and now, it’s these Mexicans and Haitians! What happened? I thought America was for the Americans.”
“Mumble,” mumbled the trapped Kevin, himself a product of a mixed marriage between an “American” Englishwoman and a “Chinese” American, as he was forced to listen to his diatribe against “un-American Americans.” He’d gesture at his wristwatch and try to make a quick getaway.
“And what do you think of our President? Seems that we’ve got a bunch of jackasses running the country. What I think we need is a better armed citizenry, don’t you?” Fat Teddy would say, oblivious to the resentful and mutinous look on his listener’s face.
Mostly Kevin couldn’t get a word in, and it didn’t matter that Fat Teddy was wrong — Kevin couldn’t get him to engage with actual facts. He would try to explain about white privilege, or tell Teddy that America had become rich on the backs of the black slaves, or that “‘Mericuns” had come to this country as greedy fur-trading, land-seeking interlopers and had wiped out whole Native American populations, while taking over the land.
Fat Teddy just rode roughshod over Kevin, paying no heed to his weak rejoinders. Kevin would say, “But … have you considered that we stole the land from the Mexicans down in Texas?” or, “The Chinese built much of our railroads on the Pacific side in the 19th century.”
Fat Teddy would stop his torrent briefly, look dismissive, and then continue, “So, what do you think of the weather, huh? Hot enough for ya? I don’t mind telling you, this past winter was so cold, I thought I’d freeze my nuts off the minute I stepped out. How’s that “Global Warming,” for Christ’s sake? That’s Global Freezing. These Climate guys, they’re all in some sort of conspiracy — all ’cause of that ‘oBummer guy, him and his “clean energy.” Bet you a million bucks, they’re planning something.”
“Think my cellphone’s buzzing. Listen, I’ve got to take this one. Nice talking to ya — but I gotta go. Bye!” Kevin would say, as he pulled out his cell phone, pretended to check it and look absorbed, as he walked away, waving his hand.
One day, after hearing Kevin complain for the nth time about Fat Teddy, his wife, Susanna, a well-known newspaper columnist, beautiful, blond, curly-haired, brilliant and very “American” looking (notwithstanding the fact that she had a blond Jewish father and a brown-skinned African-American mother, something Fat Teddy would never understand), said, “Why don’t you tell him directly that he’s driving you crazy with his redneck shit and tell him to shut up? The guy’s a racist bigot, for Pete’s sake. Don’t give him the time of day!”
“I can’t,” protested Kevin, weakly, chopping some basil, as he helped her with the pasta primavera they were making for dinner. “He doesn’t listen to what I say.”
“Be a mensch,” she said, tartly, while decanting the cooked pasta into a bowl. “Just butt right in, and tell it like it is.”
“Nah! Not worth it. I’ll just avoid walking down that way, when I go walking in the mornings,” replied Kevin.
Kevin tried avoiding that route, but knew he couldn’t avoid it all the time. Besides, he liked that particular route. The flowers cheered him up.
Neither he nor Susanna knew about Teddy’s wife being wheelchair-bound. All they knew was that Fat Teddy had a wife and that she was ailing and reclusive. The maids who had come and gone seemed to be South-East Asian, and didn’t speak with the neighbors. The cook came during the hours they weren’t home, and the gardener who came once a week was … Mexican.
One hot summer day, Fat Teddy was outside, soaking up the sun, clipping his most favorite rose-bush, pruning a little here and a little bit there. He liked playing gardener, and it gave him a quiet sensation, which, if he had been pressed to describe it, he would have compared to happiness.
He loved this rose-bush. It gave him solace. He would never speak of it, but here was where his heart had found its peace.
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Continued below on September 29th, 2015:
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Today, as he clipped, and watered and tidied his beloved rose-bush, he felt a strange pain in his chest. Out of breath as he always was, he thought it’s just a stitch, and sat back on a large, smooth rock on which were inscribed the letters RM, next to the rosebush. His mind was vacant, and his mouth hung somewhat open at such times. His large, bulbous grey eyes mirrored the sky above him. Looking up, he saw thunderclouds.
The pain increased, like a vice squeezing him. He made a low moan, and slumped over the rosebush, holding his chest, breathing stertorously.
Rose, he thought.
It was a Saturday at 8:30 in the morning.
Kevin came up, jogging, ear buds on. He didn’t hear Fat Teddy. He passed by with a wave of the hand. Fat Teddy did not see him.
It didn’t strike Kevin as odd that Fat Teddy was slumped over until he had gone about twenty-five feet. Then, he stopped abruptly. Without thinking twice, he ran back, shoving his ear buds in his pockets as he ran, and called out to Fat Teddy. A faint groan came from the man. Kevin whipped out his iPhone, called 911 and the local Emergency Medical Services. By the time they arrived, Fat Teddy was unconscious. They put a mask on him, applied CPR, and got him breathing. His eyelids fluttered open, and he held out a hand to Kevin, who immediately went over, and took it. Fat Teddy said, “My wife … tell her, please,” then closed his eyes. Kevin asked the ambulance driver where they were taking Fat Teddy. They named the hospital, the best in the country, told him he had done everything just right, called him a good citizen, and drove away.
Now, with the flashing lights and banshee siren of the ambulance dopplering away from him, he found himself shaking. His heart raced, and he found himself thinking, I hope the old geezer doesn’t die. I’ve become fond of him. Recollecting himself, he remembered Teddy’s wife. I wonder why we’ve never see her, he thought, and went up the steps to Fat Teddy’s house,which was perched like an eyrie high above the others in the neighborhood.
He rang the bell. There was no answer. He pounded the door. There was no answer. Turning the knob, he went in cautiously, now wondering what he would find.
He didn’t have long to wonder. A loud, accusing voice assaulted his senses when he entered the room whose windows were completely draped in deep red curtains, shutting out the loud morning light. His eyes took a moment to adjust, and he saw near the back wall a thin, resentful-looking woman with startling blue eyes, and ice-white hair sitting in a wheelchair.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Where’s my Teddy? Get out of here!” All of this was said in an uninterrupted stream of vitriol.
“Ma’am, I’m Kevin from down the street. Your husband is seriously ill — they’ve taken him to the hospital. That was what the noise on the street was a few minutes ago.”
The old woman took a deep breath, and said, now weakly, “My Teddy is ill? What happened?” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you sure someone didn’t beat him up or something? Those blacks moving into the neighborhood, and those Indians — can’t trust those brown-skinned savages!”
“No, Mrs … er … what shall I call you?” he asked, mentally shoring up his indignation against the onslaught of her horribleness.
“You may call me nothing. And I haven’t had my tea yet. Teddy should have thought of me first. And the maid isn’t in on the weekends. Who’ll take care of me?” And she moaned, rocking to and fro in distress.
In spite of his rising dislike of her, Kevin felt sorry for her. He said, “Tell me the maid’s number, and I’ll call her. Don’t worry. I’ll pay. Please don’t distress yourself.”
The old woman pointed to a little black notebook near the telephone. “Her name’s Evangeline Mendez — she’s one of those Filipinas the Agency sends me every time I need a new maid. The number is on the front page, not under “M” — it’s for emergencies. And mind you wipe the phone with one of those wipes from this box on the table. I can’t have your germs all over my telephone.”
Kevin called the number, suppressing his irritation. He was willing to overlook people’s intolerant attitudes, unlike his sharp-witted, impatient Susanna; he loved that about her, though — it balanced him out. Besides, Susanna was kind. If she had been here, she’d have done the same as me, only with a lot of back talk, he thought.
As he listened to the rings, he scanned the mantelpiece, on which were photographs of a young woman and young man, looking proud and happy. Upon second glance, he realized it was a picture of Fat Teddy and his wife. There was another picture of them with a baby in Fat Teddy’s arms. Beside that was a photograph of a radiant young woman.
An accented voice answered on the fifth ring. He asked for Evangeline. It was she. He told her what had happened, and promised to pay her twice her daily wage if she could come and spend the whole of Saturday with the old woman, and leave on Sunday morning. Even as he spoke, he laughed at himself for doing all this, and for what? Still, one cannot ignore one’s conscience.
The person on the other end hesitated for a long time, chatted with an unseen person on the other end, then said, yes, she could come in half an hour. He hung up.
“Evangeline will be here in half an hour. I’ll wait with you. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, about time! Yes, a cup of tea. One spoon of sugar. Milk. And get me a cookie from the jar near the kitchen window,” answered the old woman.
Kevin went in, found the tea, sugar, milk, started the kettle, and called Susanna, letting her know what had happened, and where he was. She was completely silent for a minute, and Kevin found himself getting nervous. Then, he heard her laugh and laugh.
“You’re a complete idiot, you know that? And I love you for it! Do you want me to come over, and protect you from the old harridan? She sounds quite terrifying,” she said.
“No, I’ll manage, sweetie! Thanks for not getting mad at me for doing this. It’s a pain, but there it is. They’re our neighbors.” He told her he’d return once the maid got there, told her he loved her, and hung up.
“What’s taking you so long?” yelled an angry voice from the other room.
He didn’t answer, just put the mug of steaming, milky, sweet tea, the cookie and a napkin on a tray and carried it to the old woman, who glanced at it, didn’t thank him, and began sucking tea in great gulps from the mug, her eyes never leaving him.
Kevin gestured to the picture on the mantelpiece, and said, “That’s a lovely photograph of you and your husband. Where was it taken? And you have a daughter?”
“I’ll thank you to keep your questions to yourself, mister,” snapped the old woman, but he detected her eyes filling with tears.
Tactfully, he looked away, pretended to read texts on his cellphone, tried to block out the noise of the woman crunching on the cookie, and waited for Evangeline the maid, who finally arrived, duffel bag in hand, flustered and upset.
She also looked a little apprehensive, he thought.
“Do you need help?” he asked Evangeline at the door, after he’d said goodbye to the old woman, who had merely nodded, and muttered something that might have been Thanks!
“No, it’s just … she yell a lot, and accuse me of stealing things,” whispered Evangeline. “I plan give notice on Monday, and now … this!”
He told Evangeline his address, and said he’d bring her money over in the evening. He told her he was going to visit the old man at the hospital. She thanked him, and said, “You’re a good man — not many like you.”
Then, he left.
He went home, where Susanna was waiting. She put some coffee on, while he wrapped his arms around her. He kissed her over and over again. She tasted of honey and caramel, he thought. They danced around the kitchen for a few minutes, and he inhaled the fragrance of her curly hair, thinking how fortunate he was to have her in his life, and how glad he was that she was not an old shrew. And yet … that old woman had once been a vibrant, lovely young woman once, and her husband still loved her.
He told Susanna what he thought. She laughed, and said, “And what if I get a horrid disease, and become ugly and mean. Would you still love me, and cherish me?”
He raised an eyebrow, and said, “Is that even a question?”
Then, she got serious, and said, “You know, the old coot doesn’t seem like a cartoon character any more, does he? I feel bad, somehow, for him. And I wonder what happened to their daughter? She probably couldn’t stand them, and left.”
“It’s not for us to speculate, sweetheart, you know that,” Kevin said.
“Why ever not?” she tossed back, but they moved on to other matters after that.
He showered and called the hospital, but they told him that the old man was undergoing an Emergency Angioplasty, and would be able to receive visitors for six hours. He sighed, and hung up.
Later, he couldn’t concentrate on anything that afternoon and early evening. Susanna was out with one of her newspaper buddies, and wouldn’t be back until later that evening.
He watered his garden, and tried to read The New York Times, but gave it up. It bothered him that the old man was in the hospital and there was no one but himself to check on the old curmudgeon. It bothered him that he hadn’t known until now that Fat Teddy’s wife was in a wheelchair. It bothered him that she hadn’t told him her name. It bothered him that they had a daughter whom they didn’t acknowledge.
He checked his watch, called the hospital, asked for the old man who had come in for an angioplasty that morning, and was told that Mr. Marino was awake ,and ready to receive only family members.
“There’s no family! His wife is wheelchair-bound. I’m his neighbor. I’m the one who called the EMT guys. Can I visit, or not?” he asked, somewhat snappish at having to go through all this.
There was some chat off-phone on the other end, and a perky woman’s voice said, “Yes, of course, Mr. Lee, you may visit.”
And so it was that around 6:00 that evening, after paying the maid, and making sure that Mrs. Marino was comfortable (she was less grouchy now that she’d had her needs attended to), Kevin Lee found himself at the old man’s bed. Fat Teddy gave him a two-thumbs up, and a wide grin, and said in a somewhat weaker version of his booming voice, “Come sit down, sit down! Good of you to visit. That was a scare, hahn? It was good that these guys got workin’ on me right away. If it hadn’t been for you …” and his voice trailed off, and a little fear crept around his eyes. He resumed, “I cannot die, I cannot. My wife … did you see her? Did you talk to her? What did she say?”
Kevin told him what he’d done, and Fat Teddy nodded and looked pleased. “I’ll pay you back what you paid the maid. You know, one of the surgeons who worked on me was one of them Indians. I wasn’t too pleased about it at first, but they tell me he is one of the finest in the world. What can you do? Well, I sure am glad he did what he did for me.”
Kevin leaned over and asked the question that had been burning him up, “You know, I’m curious. I didn’t know you had a kid. I saw that lovely photograph of her. Where’s your daughter now?”
Fat Teddy’s face grew dark, and his eyes filled with tears. He looked agitated, and his mouth trembled. Instantly regretting his question, Kevin said, hastily, “It’s all right. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
Fat Teddy said nothing for a moment, then whispered, “Rose, my Rose, why did you leave us? Why?”
An unimaginable tragedy hung in the air between them.
Kevin looked around, desperate to change the topic. “Would you like some water? Can I get you something?”
“No, no, it’s all right,” said Fat Teddy. “She died. She ran off and married a black man, and then, they got themselves killed in a car wreck. Stupid shit was driving too fast. I was driving after them. I was going to kill him with my gun. Good thing he died before that.” He stopped, looking a little shocked at himself. “Anyway, I don’t want to remember that. It hurts my heart. My daughter is dead. She was my Rose, our Rose, so full of life, so beautiful, and she left us.” He paused, and his voice shook a little. “Look, I want to thank you … and I don’t even know your last name!”
“My name is Lee, Kevin Lee.”
“What kind of name is that? Lee?”
“It’s Chinese, Mr. Marino. My father was half-Chinese.”
There was a silence in the room.
Mr. Marino looked around vaguely and said, “World’s changing, huh? All this melting pot stuff? It’s not bad, is it? I mean, I like you, and you saved my life, and you’re Chinese, for cryin’ out loud. And that Indian surgeon, and that other colored doctor who was there too. Mind you, I’d swear my colored nurse here’ll kill me if I’m not looking, but still. She’s neat, she’s clean. She’s good at her job. You know what? I’m glad you live down the street.”
Kevin rolled his eyes mentally, sighed internally, and said, “I’m glad as well that you live down the street, Mr. Marino. Maybe we’ll have you over for dinner. I’ll have to warn you though, my wife’s half-black, half-Jewish. Can your heart stand that?”
Mr. Marino laughed loudly, and set a machine beeping. A black nurse came running into the room, and looked stern.
He stopped laughing. She shook her finger at him, and said to Kevin, “Don’t excite him. He’s weak after surgery. You be good now, Mr. Marino.” She adjusted his sheets, patted him on the arm, and left. Mr. Marino looked rather shaken by all this kindness.
Kevin smiled to himself a little, waved goodbye, and promised to come the next morning, and take him home.
As he shut the door, he thought he heard the old man whisper Rose, my Rose!
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Tags: #Family, #kindness, #Life, #Love, #Original Short Story by Vijaya Sundaram, devotion, disability, duty, neighborliness, Prejudice, racism
Feb 24, 2015 Original Poetry
Glacial Epoch
©February 24th, 2015
By Vijaya Sundaram
Part I
On these cold, white, muffled February days,
With heaped snow all around,
And chill creeping into our lives,
An insidious whisper,
An irreversible trend,
With ice-caps melting, oceans rising,
Poseidon winning this round,
Glaciers the size of countries breaking off
Into an endless turning, churning,
Burning ocean, with dying krill,
And beached dolphins, broken whales,
And vanishing fish and blocked-up birds,
I go into survival mode,
Existing (comfortable, yes),
Living only for family and dog.
Guitar music drifts down
I stare dimly out the window
Watching flurries of snow —
Wayward thoughts of winter.
If this is the end of the world,
We won’t die of thirst at any rate.
I think into my Madras coffee,
Eat my veggie-burger sandwich,
Break sunshine from my clementine,
Drink in its gold and gleam,
Grateful for the here and now.
I will need these memories
For the there and then of the future,
Where ghosts wait.
Part II
You know your place
When the enemy shows its face
You know you can fight or flee,
For you know (though you may
Not be free)
What you’re fighting for.
And though it hurts and burns
Boring a hole you cannot ignore,
All the way through to the centre of you.
(It’s up to us to do what we must.)
You arise, and fight for right,
Not scared to break, or die,
Or acquiesce, or desist,
Your heart a tightened fist.
At least you know your place,
When you can see
Your enemy’s face.
It’s when the enemy
Smiles at you, then
Turns its back,
Whispers, glances at you
Then away, smirking,
Shoulders you out,
Ignores your voice
Demanding their ears,
Listens with veiled eyes,
(Curtains drawn over darkened rooms
Allowing no light, no air, no thought
No time to spare for you or yours,)
Shocked by your intelligence,
Then denies your truth, learning,
Insight, power, compassion
Uses cryptic speech,
Condescends —
Then, it’s worse than open warfare.
When the hypocrite dons its mask,
Your truth moves farther and farther
Away, slipping over the horizon,
Into a deeper trough than will be found —
Just shadows and froth left in
The wake of your enemy’s
Glacial smile.
…
But even glaciers will break off
And the ocean will win.
But your truth will rise again
And float upon the waves,
And perhaps a bird will
Alight upon your shoulder,
Bringing news of a newer
Pangaeic world, where
You and others can begin again.
Dropping enormous thoughts
You smile, turn away from
Window, white sky, back-yard, and
Resolutely switch on the kitchen light.
A dog needs attending to.
A child calls to you.
A song your husband plays
On his guitar pulls you back to
Avalon, After the Ball.
Ghosts can wait.
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Tags: #Family, Climate Change, existence, February daze, glaciers, racism, snowstorms, weather
Feb 16, 2015 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
What I wrote yesterday:
Snowed In. Contented
By Vijaya Sundaram
The wind howls down the street, blowing drifts of snow back on the steps, no doubt, and the dog barks in response. She suspects the wind as being an entity that’s up to no good. She’s a mysterious dog, and has deep thoughts of her own, none of which she’ll share with us, although her almond eyes gaze unwinkingly at me when I stare into them. Then, she looks away, somewhat embarrassed at such intimacy, no doubt. Her love, however, is absolute.
My daughter is making a “family tree” of various important cats in the Warriors series. She is into family trees, it appears. I love what it implies about her need to know the history of things, and also her need to create sequences. She’s always been a list-maker, and a lover of lists since she was very little.
The smell of Biryani masala wafts up the stairs – rice and mixed veggies and tofu are on the stove.
I love my husband.
He’s lovely.
_____________________________________________________________________
Tags: #Contentment, #Dog, #Family, snowed in
May 12, 2014 Uncategorized
Journey’s End
©May 12th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Little things:
The smile that leaves an imprint in the air
The nod of greeting branching my way
The question that arises from thirst
The answer that comes from a quenched place
The dog back on her feed, after sickness,
Whose face shows her former mischief
The child who tries to please, and fills
My heart with an aching joy,
Who learns and spins and dances,
And sings and advances into maturity,
And retreats into childhood,
When the fairies call.
The husband who makes it all work,
Binds our wounds, makes the appointments
Grows our food, fixes our house,
Loves and gives and forgives,
And occasionally grouches, as do I.
These little things
Make my blood sing.
And make my orbit steady
As we swing towards
Journey’s end.
Journey’s End
May 12th, 2014
By Vijaya Sundaram
Little things:
The smile that leaves an imprint in the air
The nod of greeting branching my way
The question that arises from thirst
The answer that comes from a quenched place
The dog who is back on her feed, after sickness,
And whose face shows her former mischief
The child who tries to please, and fills
My heart with an aching joy,
Who learns and spins and dances
And sings and advances into grown-up-hood
And retreats into childhood, when it’s all too much.
The husband who makes it all work,
Holds it together, makes it to the appointments
Grows our food, fixes our house, loves and gives
And occasionally grouches, as do I.
These little things
Make my blood sing.
And make my orbit steady
As we swing towards
Journey’s end.
Tags: #Family, #Journey, #Original Poetry, destination, orbiting
Jul 5, 2013 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries
(Cross-posted on my FB page):
Yes, yes, I saw the fireworks! Yes, I even enjoyed them. Husband and daughter really wanted to go, so we went, but got there just when the fireworks began, so it wasn’t as if I was forced to endure the cheering crowds for beyond than half an hour. Instead, I just got to appreciate the beauty of the burst of colors (and tried to push unwanted thoughts like “It’s a bloody expense,” “What an environmentally wrong thing this is,” and so on, out of my mind). Yes, it was lovely. And I couldn’t stop thinking about the excesses, the environment, the false sense of patriotism, the rah-rah that goes with any such event.
It seems wrong to celebrate all this activity, though. This isn’t the United States of America anymore — this is the United Corporate Entities of America, and THEY certainly aren’t patriotic!
Still, I’ll go again next year — only for my daughter’s sake. One cannot inflict one’s prejudices on one’s children and spoil things for them (I mean, I even got over my dislike of winter and sledded for her sake — and even liked it).
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~The End ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Family, corporatism, fireworks, July 4th, patriotism
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
Feb 18, 2013 Awake in Real Time: Coffee-induced Meditations and Journal Entries, Parenting/ Home-schooling / Family Music and other Notes
It snowed most of the day today — not quite a blizzardy kind of day, but a sort of blustery and white-swirly-kind of day. The winds, reportedly, were twenty-four miles an hour. We huddled indoors most of the day, mainly because the holidays stretched ahead for me for another seven days, and thus, my family felt a weight roll off our collective chests. Not that I do not have any obligations. They were just, for the nonce, suspended, like stills in those busy-seeming scenes in movies, while chaos reigns all around, because a magical thing might have just occurred.
Late to bed last night, late to arise, late, late, late for everything. We were answerable to no one but ourselves, and that was GREAT!
Oh, my husband had to work (Skype, singing lessons), but my daughter and I hung out, read a bit, sang a bit, and lazed around, and watched strange vids on YouTube.
Then, just to add interest and variety to a day that would have come and gone like a snowflake, she and I tromped together through howling winds and sub-zero temperatures in the latter half of the afternoon, through the snow-sifted landscape, snow that was like so much confectionery sugar heaped on ice-cream, wherever it was clean (and horrid dirt-encrusted sludge wherever it was not), she leaping like a mountain goat from craggy snow-and-dirt-crusted ploughed-piles on the sidewalk, and I stepping gingerly on the road, putting myself at the mercy of drivers who plunged like sea-horses into the wind, gaily proceeding at thirty miles an hour, and slowing down only slightly so as to not mow down this “tropical hot-house flower” as my husband used to jocosely refer to me.
And my husband? In between the music lessons he gave on Skype, he made fresh pasta using our pasta maker, and dried them on clamps from our basement (which, he assured me, he had washed thoroughly). Later, we had a delicious dinner, and feasted on ambrosia and nectar, or, more accurately, homemade pasta, with homemade pasta sauce that had been slow-cooked to perfection. Oh, and we talked and laughed, and it was all good.
That’s what we did today. Later, we shall all sing together. Perfection.
Now, I sit quietly at the kitchen table, with my daughter reading her favorite book of the moment, and I type up all these lovely, idle happenings, so as to not forget the beauty and pleasantness that are part of my life. I want these memories to sustain me when things are difficult, or when I worry about the state of the world, or when I doubt myself (frequently), or am frustrated by the slowness and stubbornness of the human species when it comes to change for the better (I count myself among these, of course!), or when I am unaccountably sad.
Some days are for long-winded, almost-run-on sentences. Other days are for sentences from Kurt Vonnegut-land.
In short, I was happy today. Not bad for a wintry, icy, blustery Sunday, where naught happened, but idleness. Oscar Wilde would have approved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~FINIS~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tags: #Family, #Oscar Wilde, Gratitude, Idleness, Journal