Lucid Dreams
You first become aware something's amiss when the fan overhead stops whirring, and the A/C grinds to a halt. As you waver irritably between dreams and awakening, a shuddering, thunderous roar goes up as the generator comes to life. Great. Another powercut. It was funny enough when you chuckled over last week's fictional escapade in the search of the ever-elusive Electricity, but now the joke's wearing thin.
Somewhere, just audible over the the drone, is the tinny voice of a broadcast. Someone's television (or is it a radio?) is backed up by the generator, and tuned to some annoying news program.
"The rate of warming is increasing. The 20th century's last two decades were the hottest in 400 years and possibly the warmest for several millennia, according to a number of climate studies...Arctic ice is rapidly disappearing, and the region may have its first completely ice-free summer by 2040 or earlier."
More gloom and doom. Just what you needed after a sleepless night spent writing some stupid assignment that would have been finished hours earlier if your UPS hadn't been shot. You kick off the covers, squirming in the heat as you try to get comfortable and crawl back into peaceful slumber.
The sun shimmers overhead, a ball of white heat. The bare tops of leafless trees claw the stifling, windless air that scorches sunburnt tumorous skin. The boat floats solemnly over what used to be a bustling capital city, now sleeping under what used to be ice-caps. Elsewhere on the planet, another starving polar bear drowns.
Your sleeping hand swats at the annoying whine at your ear, half-waking you, and dispersing the cobwebs of the nightmare. As you roll over to the other side, your shoulder bumps the bedside table, and the magazine you'd been reading falls to the ground. It was the issue with that terribly depressing cover story about the global water crisis.
"884 million people, lack access to safe water supplies, approximately one in eight people...Every 15 seconds, a child dies from a water-related disease"
As you wait for sleep, you can't help but remember those three horrific days just last week when you had no water in the flat. You lie there with your eyes closed, remembering...
The rust stains on the shower head mocked you as you stared at it. You've turned the knobs as far as they would go, but not a drop comes out. The faucet in the sink had belched some mud and air earlier in the morning, but nothing since then. The buckets you had filled two days ago had run dry the previous night, and now stand empty. The kitchen counter is littered with empty PET bottles. You'd exhausted those too. Dirty dishes lie in the sink, unwashed laundry stinking in the clothes basket. You'd called municipality man an hour ago to inquire when the next shipment of water would reach you, but all you got was a busy dial tone. Staring at your fast-depleting wallet, you decided to suffer your thirst just a little longer...
The steady drip, drip, drip of a leaky faucet brings you back to the conveniences of the present, as soothing as the feel of your mother's hands patting your back as she crooned a lullaby to you as a child. Comforted by the sound, you try to drift off again, but it's hard. Even several storeys up, you can still smell the acrid black smoke from the giant diesel-guzzling beast of a generator downstairs. It is an ever-present, oppressive malodor that invades your nostrils in this increasingly stuffy room. It reminds you of the cumbersome biology assignment you'd been working on.
"The World Health Organization (WHO) estimates that 1.5 billion people living in urban areas throughout the world breathe dangerous levels of air pollution"
Like you didn't know that already. Suddenly the muggy humidity and the smell of the smoke are more than you can bear. Pushing aside your pillow, you get up to your feet. You step towards the window, but decide against opening them; why let more of the smoke in? You open the door, hoping to relieve some of the claustrophobia, but the air outside your room is as dank and stale as the air within. You stand there, as though keenly aware of the million invisible cells and particles swarming in the very air you're breathing, crawling in through your nostrils, invading your body, the germs, the dust, the aerosol gases, and you find yourself choking on the thought. Your vision swims and sweat beads form on your face, running down your skin to pool at the waistband of your trousers.
Your lungs are on fire, clamoring for some fresh air...
...and you wake up in the car, stuck in the middle of yet another traffic jam, under the blazing midday sun. Even as you grunt and shift into a more comfortable position, the traffic light turns green and the cool breeze generated by your car moving forward, alleviates that suffocating sensation. You shake your head to clear it of the phantasm, and smile to yourself, feeling a little foolish. And another Earth Day passes, unnoticed.
References: http://news.nationalgeographic.com, http://www.water.org, http://www.cleanairsys.com
Photos: www.deviantart.com
Labels: RS Cover
A Shocking Caper
(with Azfarul Islam)
A cesspool of dreams, mired in corruption, bubbling with desire. Where ideas converge for the future and green paper diverges thoughts, minds and hearts. Where the deepest, darkest bowels are now evermore, silent, metastasising. This is Dhaka City.
An abyssal blackness plunges all, from the delicately-coiffed baby squirming in his mother's lap to the restless student glancing guiltily at the papers on his desk, his pallid face basking in the glow of a forbidden read. The darkness even consumes the weary magnate, his fingers callused from all the zeroes typed in for the day. One can muse how 'zero' is but naught, a non-existent sum that feeds on others to gain stature. Like the shade now eclipsing all these tiny lives, stilling the beating heart of the City, clogged arteries and all.
Somewhere in Gulshan, 6:30pmIt was a sweltering evening, and the descending sun sneered down at the sweaty city, raising fiery fingers in a mocking salute as it gave way to the Darkness. With a great, shuddering roar, the generators fired up as the City prepared for yet another losing battle against the power-cut. Electricity was nowhere to be seen. The UPS beeped pitifully once or twice, and finally gave up. Damn.
Svelte and charming; with typing speeds to rival Hermes and a motherly nature hiding a real wildcat underneath, even the toughest of men have withered under the QWERTY of Sabs. She peered up from her well-thumbed copy of Rising Stars, every private eye's source for all that happens in the dark underbelly of Dhaka's teen populace.
“No sign of Electricity, then?”
“Nope. Been missing for freakin' half-an-hour now!”
“Blast it!”
This from the quick-witted, flamboyant Az, whose words had a keener edge than Darth Vader's trusty light-sabre, and woe betide the poor soul that lit his legendary short fuse and faced the business end of his sarcasm. Electricity better turn up soon, or there would be blood. And none of it would be Az's.
Just then, someone's cell-phone rang, piercing the dust.
“Hello? Is this the Rising Investigators? Oh, thank God!”
Ah. When there's trouble, one can count on word to come crawling to the Rising Investigators. If anyone could get to the bottom of a story, it would be these two. They did chew out the Ghostbusters last year and send them crying, yelling something about the devil's own minions. The details weren't important.
“How can we help you, ma'am?”
“My baby's been wailing non-stop since Electricity left us, and the IPS quit, and the mosquitoes are getting us and...”
At this point, the batteries gave out. Typical. Electricity hadn't been there long enough to let us charge our phones. Still, it was a lead.
Crime Scene One: A house in DhanmondiThe victim, a baby, had gone purple in the face from crying. Even with the windows opened (thus the mosquitoes), the room felt like soup. The mother was frantically flapping a magazine, trying to generate some wind, while the ceiling fan overhead lay idle, mocking us. Az and Sabs exchanged looks: it was time to search for clues. They scoured the cupboard. They combed through the shelves...and then, they found it. Tucked away into an obscure corner of a mid-safe was a quaint artifact, a throwback from the previous decade...a nakshi hand-fan. With its smooth wooden handle and brightly coloured cloth border, it was just perfect.
“What's that? You found it where? In the mid-safe? Oh no! It probably belonged to my mother-in-law...which means it's cursed!” In the silence that ensued, a pair of incredulous eyebrows inched up a pair of incredulous foreheads. “You what?”
“Don't you guys watch Hindi serials? Oh, I see...” This last as Sabs slapped her own forehead in sheer frustration, and Az mimed puking motions. Giving up this ultra-modern urbanite as utterly hopeless, Sabs swished the hand-fan over the baby.
A gentle breeze issued forth and the baby hiccupped a few times, and was mercifully silent. The woman's flabbergasted exclamations of joy were cut short by the jangle of some annoying Bollywood number, which turned out to be her cell-phone ringer. “Hello? Yes...the Rising Investigators are here...what? Okay, I'll tell them.” The two didn't need an explanation. There was a new scene to visit.
Crime Scene Two: A god-forsaken room with the vilest possible stench, i.e., the room of your average studentFor someone who sounded like a pansy girl on the phone, they were shocked to find their student a tall gangly mass of black clothes, hairy and studded with piercings. He was head-banging to a knock-off iPod grasped in his quivering, sweat-encrusted claw. Az knocked politely on the door. The student turned to them, eyes blurred with relief... and fear. He spoke in that voice, causing Sabs to roll her eyes and Az wishing that she hadn't convinced him to leave his wooden sword at the office. He wondered if someone squeaking in a nauseating tone counted as “wielding a weapon with deadly intent”. From what they filtered out of the screeching cacophony that greeted them, he had coursework to submit, due - as these things are - the following day. With an IPS that had died with nary a cough, there wasn't much hope for this lad without his PC. They shook their heads and started interrogating him, trying to rack his brain, so good at organising a massive MP3 collection in alphabetic order, yet failing at more practical things in life. Like personal hygiene.
Whilst Az attempted to communicate, Sabs' bright eyes pierced the darkness, taking in a lot of detail that, well, once seen couldn't be unseen. She spied a dirty sheaf of printer paper and then whispered to Az in an excited voice, “Remember the time we got a cheque?” Az locked his gaze with hers, his mouth agape.
Of course, he slapped himself metaphysically. Rummaging a pocket best left unrummaged, he gripped something ancient yet still working. He spoke softly to the lad, “What I'm about to pass onto you has been with me through many a case. So, I'll kill you if you don't get an A+.” He handed a chipped ballpoint pen, still half-full of ink. Understanding dawned on the student's face and his once meek outlook turned into dogged determination. He nodded once.On the way out, Sabs, without looking back asked him, “So, what were you listening to?”He proudly exclaimed, “Havy matal. Back ishtrit boyej.”
Soon-to-be Crime Scene Three: A restaurant, good food, decent service. The Maître d' usually gives us a discount.She smiled at him from across the table, dimples forming fetchingly across her cheeks. He felt a flutter in his stomach...no wait, that was probably the kofta curry. His wallet would probably hate him, but right now, Dhaka Romeo was definitely blissed out at having managed a date with the Babe Next Door. Their fingers inched forward, crawling across the expanse of tablecloth for a rendezvous at the centrepiece.
Chugchugchug... broooomm.
With a dying groan, the generator gave out, plunging the room into darkness. A medley of exclamations, complaints and apologies arose. It turned out that the frequency with which Electricity went AWOL, even the uber-romantic candles were running out. Suddenly, a beam of light appeared from the doorway, as two familiar figures walked in, armed with their trusty, cheap, mug-proof cell-phones. “Just happened to be passing by!” Sabs chimed, while Az grinned rakishly.
“The Rising Investigators! We're saved!”
The pair walked in, bearing a pair of dusty artefacts not seen in years. “We found these at a kutcha bazaar. They're called hurricane lamps, and they run on kerosene.”The little crowd watched, rapt, as Sabs poured the oil in. Flicking his thumbnail over the tip, Az lit a match, and then lit the tapers. A pattering of applause went around as the small flames flickered to life, illuminating tired, sweaty faces, the interlinked fingers of Dhaka Romeo and Babe Next Door. The emergency had been thwarted and romance restored, but it was clear that there was still a job to be done. Electricity had to be found. The Rising Investigators stepped out into the Darkness. Our two heroes were hot on the trail of the elusive Electricity, chasing the sightings, interrogating eyewitnesses, who gave different accounts.
“We had 'im an hour back.”
“Comes and goes...”
“Aijka soy baar gese!”
“Afa, bhaiya... ey torss-ta kinben?”, grinned a toothless 'Amare-maaf-koira-den' Dilip, ever the opportunist.
All over, men roared in anguish, women screamed and children ran amok, happy, excited, frightened - an outpouring of emotion not felt since the day before. One by one, the generators gave out. The lines at the CNG filling stations grew longer. Tempers frayed. Nails were bitten. Locks of hair were torn out in utter frustration. The suspense crescendoed......and then the lights came back on. Az hit 'Save', and Sabs clicked on 'Send', and the article on power-cuts was on its way to the Rising Stars, and the two writers, shared a moment of self-congratulation. Once again, Rising Stars has a cover story. The day is saved!
Labels: RS Cover
Ride with me
Large suitcases splattered with tags nest cosily next to flashily coloured travelling bags on the back of the crowded bus. Up in the front, heads are bobbing to private rhythms fed to the ears through the wires of sleek mp3 players. She turns to the window to watch the roads run away from home.The bus shuddered, rumbled, and rattled to a start. Judging by the condition of the roads and the traffic that clogged the highway junctions like cholesterol in a human artery, it would be a long ride. Ruby sighed and shifted in her seat, trying to get comfortable. It was hard to get legroom inside this cramped space. Kicking off her scuffed, much-abused sneakers, she slumped against the window, and stretched her legs out on the empty seat next to her.
With a single shouted warning from the bus conductor, the vehicle rolled and screeched to a halt. This was the last pick-up point, which meant that someone would shortly come to reclaim the extra seat. Grumbling inaudibly, she shifted to a sitting position.
The smell of the cologne hit her before he reached her. Even before she registered what this meant, she instinctively knew to expect the long limbs, the narrow frame, the slightly hunched posture, the light stubble over the strong jaw, and the spiked hair.
"Riko?"
Tarik paused in the act of stashing his bag in the overhead compartment and looked at his co-passenger. And there she was, staring up at him, lips parted, eyes wide open, and eyebrows hitting the ceiling in an expression of astonishment that he always found so disarming.
"Well I'll be damned."
The bus lurched forward, throwing him off, and he dropped into his seat. She shied away, and he craned his neck for a quick glance around to see if there were any other seats available. No such luck.
"Of all the seats, in all the buses, in all the city services, I get one next to yours."
"Ah, so you finally watched Casablanca."
She shrugged in a way that was typically Ruby. He sighed and settled into his seat, remembering...
The fresh plates are stacked by the hotpots, gleaming in anticipation, right next to the hotpots steaming with the mixed aromas of pulao rice, chicken curry and mixed vegetables. Knives and forks clash in a merry cacophony as piles of food are decimated. Outside, in the freezing cold, the starving dog waits for scraps.Tarik pushed his plate away, the contents untouched. He was in no mood to eat after the events of the morning. What was supposed to have been a simple donation delivery mission at the children's hospital had quickly turned into a tragedy when one of the premature babies in the non-paying ward stopped breathing. He had watched, with a kind of horrified detachment, as a team of medics rushed in with pumps and attempted to resuscitate the little thing, hardly bigger than his hand. Using a miniature suction pump, they attempted to clean the tiny nostrils, while a small hand-held pump was pressed to force air into those newly formed lungs. Suddenly, there was a click and flash, and he looked up in disbelief to see a camera lens pointed at the tableau.
Ruby.
Suddenly, the doctor in charge raised a hand, and the team backed off. Tarik tensed, as the young mother, barely in her teens, hopefully approached the bed.
"I'm sorry...."
The rest of the consolatory words were drowned out, as, with a keening wail, the girl flung herself at the corpse of her baby. Tarik felt his insides turn cold, as he belatedly realised that the baby had died.
Ruby brushed past him and made for the bed. Stopping for a few words with the doctor, she made for the mother. She whispered a few words to the girl's mother, and handed her a small bundle of money. Resting her hand on the sobbing girl's head for a second, she hoisted the bag of gift packs onto her shoulder and made for the next bed. Already, she was smiling at the patient, handing her a packet.
Stepping outside now, he found her sitting on the steps, feeding scraps to a flea-bitten mutt. The dog had attached itself to her since the first time she fed it, on their first night here, and had been following her around since. He watched, disgusted, as she scratched it behind the ears, laughing as it leaned into the caress. Suddenly, all the anger and resentment he'd been feeling since morning exploded inside him. Striding forward, he kicked the dog as hard as he could, sending the creature flying with a yelp. She was on her feet in a flash.
"Riko! What's your problem?"
"My problem? I'll tell you what my problem is. How could you stand there and shoot pictures and laugh with the other patients? My God! The girl had just lost her baby!"
She straightened her back and her eyes grew flinty.
"Those other patients had problems enough of their own, and didn't need to deal with a wet-eyed volunteer who can't hold it together. What the hell was I supposed to do? Bawl my eyes out? Would it bring the baby...."
The words remained unspoken as a hand came crashing against her face. The force of the blow made her head snap back, and she stumbled backwards, but caught herself just in time. He stood there, shocked his own loss of control as she raised a hand to her cheek, where a large palm print was already beginning to form.
"Ruby, I'm sorry..."
But she was already walking away.
Rich purples and dark blues bleed into one another in the sky. The sun is a fiery disc, speeding towards slumber. Inside the bus, the lights come on, illuminating the passengers."I never got to tell you how sorry I was for hitting you that day, or even thinking you didn't care."
She dismissed it with yet another shrug.
"Ancient history."
"You did care, though, didn't you. I saw your article."
"Why didn't you call?"
"I was scared. I didn't know what to tell you"
She smiled. Gingerly, he reached out, and took her hand. She curled her fingers around his. Up in the front, the bleary-eyed driver failed to notice the roads were slick from a recent downpour. As the wheels began to skid, he suddenly snapped to attention, panicked, and hit the brakes. Losing traction, the bus skidded off and spun around thrice, before wrapping itself around an ancient banyan tree.
As the vehicle began to spin, and Ruby and Riko clung to each other for support, flashes of their shared experiences exploded into their memories.
The first time they met, on another bus ride, a year ago.The first walk through the countryside, over the moonlit path, unhindered by electric lighting.The first time their fingers touched and tangled, under the table during a briefing session.When the rescue team pulled the bodies out of the bus, they were still holding hands.
Curry me across the shoreline
The email had come out of the blue. It was a simple, rather random note, but the aching familiarity of it left her feeling pole-axed.
"Hey Sweetheart
18 days gone, maybe another week or so, and then life goes back to its normal routine. Your mother finally left enough rice for me for once, and the spinach and bitter gourd were awesome too, so I finished it all up. The best part was the egg. I hope you're having your porridge with bananas. Make sure you drink lots of water. I'm going to set the alarm for your mom now, so that the old woman remembers to take her meds. Offer your prayers, and have a good night's ZZZ.
Luvya,
Dad"
It was so typically him, she could almost feel the crackle of the pages from the tiny memo pads he used to write these midnight sehri notes on. She was torn between tears and laughter as she tried to picture the perplexed expression on her mother's face as she asked the pointless question, "How much rice does that man need?"
As she switched off the computer, Shanila reacted to the suddenness of the communication in a way that was uniquely hers; she was struck with a sudden, and inexplicable hankering for food that wasn't immediately available. Right now, her starving body screamed for some good old fish curry. None of the fancy, anglicized versions of curry either; those brightly coloured concoctions might conform with the Bollywood cross-over ideal of what Sub-continental looked like, but were pale imitations of the actual thing when it came to taste. No...what Shanila craved was some authentic shorisha ilish, the way her mother used to make it back home.
Derek found her in the kitchen, pounding away with her pestle at a clove of garlic. Pulling a beer out of his fridge, he offered her a sip.
"Derek! I'm fasting!"
This was something he was well aware of; for an entire month every year, the otherwise up-for-anything, "Nila" would suddenly go all straight-edge on him, eschewing sex, smokes, and alcohol, praying like there was no tomorrow. He got his kicks from getting a rise out of her when she got like this. Edging closer to the counter, he spotted the neat array of fish and spices. Having completed her preparation of the garlic paste, she was de-seeding green chilli peppers.
"What's all this? We having Indian tonight?"
"Bangladeshi! Shorisha Ilish is a Bangladeshi dish! Now move. You're getting in the way."
"Well excuse me for breathing. Sheesh!"
He moved away, stung by her overreaction to a genuine question. Normally, she would collect herself at this stage and apologise, but this time she didn't. Curiosity won over resentment, and he turned back to observe her at work, careful to stay well out of her way. He might as well have not existed for all the attention she paid him. He watched, fascinated, as she grabbed the fish fillets, marinated in a concoction of turmeric, salt and lime juice, and popped them into the pan, shallow frying with gusto. Nila wasn't the most enthusiastic of cooks, tending to prefer store-brought or take-ins, reluctantly tossing the odd salad or stir-frying noodles. This was the first time she was actually making what seemed to be a complicated, obviously exotic dish, and she went at it with a total absorption that Derek found a little unsettling.
"Need help?"
She whipped around to snap at him, but caught the bashful smile on his face, and realised he was in earnest, and her attitude softened.
"Okay. You shallow-fry the fish. Make sure they're golden brown on both sides. I'll deal with the curry."
Trying not to burn the fillets, he watched her askance as she stir fried the spices. Ginger, garlic, mustard seed, chilli powder, turmeric, coriander and bayleaf went dancing into the oil, swirling to form a golden brown concoction that smelt powerful, but looked nothing like the stuff he saw in restaurants. Where were the warm yellows, the bright reds?
"You've done this before, Nila?"
"Nope."
"Ah. Maybe you want to add some more of that stuff?" He indicated the turmeric jar.
"No. This is fine."
"But you said ______"
"Hey! You trying to teach a Bengali how to cook fish?"
"Okay! Okay! Keep your hair on! I'm sorry!"
After that, they worked in silence as she added water and salt, brought the curry to boil before popping in the fish and garnishing with green chillies. She scooped a bit of the gravy and tasted some, the furrows at her brow relaxing as she finally smiled.
"Perfect."
"Uh...Nila. Weren't you fasting?"
"Oh. Damnit!"
"Well...you lasted ten hours, didn't you. That's got to count?"
"You don't understand..."
"Stop saying that, okay? I get this whole fasting and absolution business that you guys do, alright..."
He broke off in alarm as her eyes overflowed and two fat teardrops spilled down her cheeks. She backed away until her back was against the counter, and then sank down to the floor, her frame wracked by silent sobbing. He was by her side in a flash. Unsure of how she might want to be comforted, he awkwardly patted her knee as she cried. At length, the floods subsided, and she clumsily wiped her nose on her sleeve.
"The fish. The fasting. This wasn't just one of your random whims, was it? What's on your mind?"
"I had an email from Dad. It was one of his sehri notes."
"Sehri notes?"
"It's a long story."
***
Renu turned down the heat on the stove, and stirred the gravy one last time. As she ladled the contents of the pan into the bowl, a satisfying aroma of ghee and spices arose from the kofta curry. After years of practice, she'd finally perfected her rendition of the old family favourite taught to her by her mother. It was a pity that her own daughter Shanila never took an interest in Bengali cooking, or any cooking for that matter. Her little girl had always been too busy with her nose in books to bother stepping into the kitchen, and now that she was all grown up, she'd flown off to the land of fish and chips, and probably lived off that stuff now.
As she carefully stored the food in plastic containers to freeze until the Eid feast next week, her husband Shafi came shuffling into the kitchen, his face split into an ear-to-ear grin.
"What, looking for rice are you?"
"You crack me up, dearest. Got a mail from the Firstborn."
"Another animated Eid card?"
"Better than that. She wrote us a sehri note."
Dear Dad,
Cooked my first shorisha ilish today. I dug the recipe out from that Siddika Kabir book Mom had packed with me. It was spicier than mum's one, but tasted great with the rice. Sorry, I didn't do porridge this time. I hope Mum's taking a glass of milk along with her meds? Don't forget to have some extra pulao on my behalf this Eid.
Love you and miss you both,
Nila.
I cannot tell you
Amongst the things I cannot tell you is the fact that I've always known the effect those diary entries would have on you, even as I wrote them. Don't get me wrong; I was shattered when you left me. Those tears you happened upon when later you dropped in to check on me were very real indeed. You see, I didn't want to be the one to break your heart.
Let's face it. We both knew this was one journey we couldn't finish together. I just thought you should be the one to call it off. Dealing with the end of the most perfect experience I've ever had was difficult enough without having the additional burden of guilt on my shoulders. No, it was far easier to play the victim and let you take the blame.
I cannot also tell you that although I felt sorry for you while you struggled with the guilt you suffered, a perverse part of me actually enjoyed your discomfort. I bit back the hurt and the bitterness and the utter desolation of losing you, choosing to be sympathetic and understanding of your situation, knowing it would make you feel worse.
How smug I was beneath that veneer of martyrdom, when I saw you floundering hopelessly, hating yourself for thinking of her when I was so obviously not over you! I detested the sight of her pretty little face, and that enchanting giggle of hers that reeled you in, pulling you away from me. I loved how it made you feel so low and dishonest. In those long, lean months, deprived of the warmth of your arms, I fed off your self-loathing.
It's been a long while since we went our separate ways. You've found and lost someone else, locking the memory of us into some dim recess of your mind, like a box in the attic. I know that you return to it sometimes, sifting through half-forgotten moments. That walk in the park. That kiss in the rain. The silly song we sang together that left us both breathless with laughter. I know, because I do the same.
But these are all things I cannot tell you. So tonight, sitting in the very place we had once promised to visit together, I shall send off this postcard, stamped and franked, but unwritten.
With or without you
Five pieces of metal, uniquely shaped and serrated; each a story of its own, yet all joined together by a circlet of steel. They were given to my parents by the construction company that tore down the cozy home of my childhood and replaced it with a block of shiny flats. Finally deeming me responsible enough to have my own schedule, my mother handed them to me.
I have a bittersweet relationship with that woman. I absolutely
hate the way she tries to run my life, telling me how much to eat, when to wake up, what to wear. Yet I cling to her, terrified, needing the security of her closeness, a compass to direct me. No matter how tall I get or how far I run, she dominates my thoughts.
I know that tonight, I'll wait up for her until she returns, and meekly return them to her, and she would ask me if it wasn't a good idea I'd taken them. I'll nod in agreement and tell her 'Thanks Mom. I'd be stranded otherwise." And she will smile, knowing it wasn't the keys I was referring to.
For Leo
Evening progresses, and you lay in wait
With growing anticipation, as the hour grows late
Is tonight the night
You'll finally get some action?
Or will you take it slow
With rest and relaxation?
He comes towards you with a tenderness in his eyes
And you sigh with contentment as he lies
Down and stretches comfortably
But then your pleasure turns to dread
As he sinks into a sleep of the dead
You poor deluded thing, can't you get it in your head,
That he's a human being, and you're only his bed?
