i am going to be a writer. i decided on that yesterday. why not? i ran into half an existential crisis a few days ago. i felt i needed a talent. a person i know claimed she "sketched". mechanical "sketching" she said. and her drawings were portraits. painfully intricate, pedantic, beautiful portraits. where did that come from? i felt envy, jealousy maybe. she was born this way? that triggered a wave of me feeling useless, empty, boring, uncreative. but i so do long to be this mecca of creativity. but you cannot force it..creativity is either there..or is not..so i delved into the depths of my soul, consulted a few friends, and decided..that were I to have one real talent, just one, it would have to be words. I mean certainly not music. nor art. so i will try to use words, twist them, squeeze them together, gut them, poise them, hurl them at whomever would like to read..and keel over with the outcome..be it some literary masterpiece or some stunted meaningless amputated bit of prose..i will try to read..and write everyday. mostly for my own contentment, and then a llittle for an audience, hopefully a forgiving one.

it's been 8 years since i've moved, she thought. 8 years. sometimes they were decades, other times they were a bright twirling second. she did the math again in her head..just to be sure..yes, 8 years. so much has happened, and yet so little. she opened the double doors that lead to the garden, paused at the top of the wooden stairs. everything was dripping with the fresh rain. the roses were blooming and shriveled up flowers she had thought were weeds had sprouted up, peeking from underneath the rose shrubs timidly, not quite sure what to make of this new world. that's great, she thought. no need to water the plants. farmer thoughts. wanting it to rain to avoid this tedious routine of everyday watering. the streets were empty, the decks were empty, and she wondered why none of the neighbours were ever sitting outside underneath their 200 year old trees. they have these solid ancient trees in their backyards, and perfectly mowed grass..i'm the only one who sits in my garden, she thought. although puzzling, it was a relief. she could sit unfettered, talk unfettered, stare into whatever spot of space she fancied, unfettered. she stared at the computer screen. she had to write about her experience as a foreigner here, it was for some article that was to be published back home. there were many things she wanted to say, but really, she never felt like a foreigner here. well maybe a few times. she looked at the red crowned bird perched on her hammock, waiting for a plump drop of water to fall onto his open beak..that's what life felt like sometimes here..like she was waiting for that drop of water..she could see it growing, acquiring momentum, collecting, balancing, almost falling, but no..she typed a few sentences, and then she found the words flowing, they were pouring out of her soul..she really liked this city, this country. she had found this irrational need lately to defend this city like it was her own, to unmask its albeit jagged edges and reveal the raw, deeply ornate character underneath.

Watched 'Blue Valentine' the other day..makes you very very weary of marriage..how could two people who adored each other end up so bitter and disillusioned? scary stuff indeed..guess it's about expectations and perception?

hello?
life has been whizzing by and i haven't had the urge to blog in a long time. even now, i don't have any original thought to share, just wanted to dabble into it a little. work work work. television. catching the last of the summer heat. counting the lemons on my lemon tree (and waiting for them to turn yellow, except it seems they are just green lemons). roses blooming in the fall, in the little pink alcove in the garden. barbequing, a carnivorous autumn. not much poetry. that's the price you pay when you are either not sad enough or very busy..maybe the urge to wrie will resurrect in the cold hours of winter doom. for now, happy to come home while the daylight is still filtering in, and to go outside in the morning, breathe, watch the squirrels rummaging, and sip on the nescafe

she stays up at night scouring the internet. she is sleepy all day, her eyes heavy with the desire to lie down and plunge into bed, but come midnight, she is alive. her days have been encircling each other, entwining, and vanishing. easily forgettable, nothing remarkable. night is when she has a whole world at her diposal. hers, and only hers. and she speaks to the night, it speaks back sometimes. she is tired, though. tired of sameness. this hunger for the unknown, for picking up and leaving, for challenge, is back. she wonders if there will be a time when it will cease to plague her. how do people stop wondering, stop feeling like there's always more? when?

there were pink buds on the naked tree today. you have to squint your eyes to see them. but they're there. yes yes yes! spring!

why not hell

february is the month where your skin has been stretched so dry, your wrinkles have been sculpted so well, and your spirit has literally frozen up so much that you start thinking that hell, with its roaring fires and crackling embers, may not be so horrid afterall. nursing the fourth cold this season, i am writing this. outside there is a blanket of snow that is turning into rancid ice. inside, i wish i had a fire. i would like to roast chestnuts just to smell them. i spend my time painting the walls in my mind and watching home and garden television. there is something reassuring and so simple about their shows. i imagine backsplashes for the kitchen. then unimagine them. i visualize trees inside the house, while my plants are begging for water, scorched into a torrid brown by my carelessness.
even the patients in the hospital are in no hurry to go home these days. i despise the month of february. may it pass quickly.