April: Say it with flowers

 Late April and the city is like a young person in love...

From Top: Bradford Pear (more lower down), Star Magnolia, Dawn Viburnum (so fragrant), Narcissus, and Eastern Redbud.

Late April and the city is like a young person in love, saying it with flowers. No matter where you are– in Central Park looking towards the matchstick skyscraper rising, in Midtown jostling with the pavement crowds, or with your back to the river–there are flowers everywhere. The light is reddish gold and the birds are singing. In the window of the apartment on the opposite side, the fat white cat is smiling at a sunbeam.

People have been in love in far less favorable climes.

*

I looked into his eyes and I knew it then. It was so sudden, but I was sure. So I took him home.

The man pauses and puffs at his cigarette. The traffic inches on. The dogs are busy getting to know each other. For a few seconds the conversation turns to the dogs ‘she is very affectionate, though at first comes off as standoffish’ and ‘he’s adorable, especially when he wakes up in the morning’. Then the lights turn green. The humans nod their goodbyes.

Gripping the leash firmly he and his love at first sight totter away on this fine, fine Spring day.

 *

Cheer, cheer, cheer (sharp, quick)

Birdie, Birdie, Birdie, Birdie (stretched)

Even amidst the noise that returns with Spring (calm silence of winter, where art thou?), the song is unmistakable. Stopping and scanning the barely unfurled leaves above, I spot him: a male Northern Cardinal in his splendid red coat. On this narrow stretch of greenery, disregarding the fast-rising towers on both side and the gawking humans marching in single-file, he is calling out to his mate– do birds fall in love? Of course, science has no answer.

"True love will find you in the end
This is a promise with a catch
Only if you're looking can it find you
'Cause true love is searching too
But how can it recognize you
Unless you step out into the light?"
– Daniel Johnston, "True Love Will Find You in the End"

*

She said she’ll wait for him forever. He was with someone else, probably with a couple of them. You know what it’s like in college. But she told him she’d wait for as long as it took. Till then she had art. All very dramatic. But gosh! The art was so bloody good. I mean there was real potential but…

So what happened?

Oh! She waited for 6 long years. They are together, I suppose married by now…happily and all that. But man, it’s like the well of art has dried up. I don’t think she’s put pencil on paper for the past year or more. Nothing. Man, what a tragedy! A real tragedy!

Silence.

The magnolia tree, over laden with flowers (it would take forever to count them all) murmurs something to the breeze. But I don’t quite catch the words. Small, essential things getting lost in translation.              

*

He KISSED her!

No, he didn’t kiss kiss her. It was more like a peck. A very small one. He said so.

Both boys walk with the confidence that comes naturally to 9-10 year olds. A slight rustle from above makes me look up and I spot a juvenile mourning dove, framed by cherry blossoms, eavesdropping.

“As it has been said:
Love and a cough
cannot be concealed.
Even a small cough.
Even a small love.”
― Anne Sexton

*

So you were practically childhood sweethearts!

They are smiling, but their expression says they’ve just been stuck by that idea too. 

Two people sitting at the next table (discussing their Tinder dates…shush don’t tell) suddenly turn and look back, as if somebody has woken them up from a bad dream.

The brunching set is settling down; glasses are clinking and small talk is buzzing. White petals are falling down by the fistfuls, even as new buds are opening.

The 'Bradford' Pear, one of NYC's common street trees, that everybody loves (flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere), and hates (smell of the flowers, invasive etc).

*

The serviceberry flowers are laughing in the sunshine. You have to listen very hard.

Late April and the city is like a young person in love…or at least one pretending to be. But then, as far as pretenses go, being in love, or even thinking of being in love isn’t all that bad, is it? 

“Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched—love for instance—we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next. ” 

― Virginia Woolf, The Waves

A Hazy Shade of Spring

In the morning as I am brushing my teeth, a scene flashes before my eyes: two little boys in a light green bumper car surrounded by autumn leaves waiting for someone to take them home. In the morning haze, I try to recollect the movie I saw before going to bed the previous night, and just then the haze slowly lifts. It wasn’t a movie but a book, part of a collection, Suspended Sentences by Patrick Modiano.

The unknowable, enigmatic past that we try to grasp forever. Events never reach any fruitful conclusion; people come and go, never to be heard from again; places disappear, not just from our memory, but also often physically. Yet, it is the one “true” story that we have. So we try to find a way out of the haze, thereby giving direction to our lives. 

*

Over breakfast I say, we’ll forget everything. (I say that often I realize.) So I start from some sort of a beginning. The door opened and you were standing there. But then what happened next? What were you wearing? Which book was I reading? What were they talking about? And then the days zoom by– blank upon blank.

All the photographs have been scanned and sorted. But what do they say? What does this photograph reveal? Smothered in roses and marigolds, she is standing next to her and he…he is looking towards– what or whom? What were they thinking? Why does mother appear to be smiling so ruefully? When does love begin, when does it end? Did they know? But they had just met.

She isn’t even in this photograph you add as a matter of fact.

But did they know then? What good is this collection of all these half-seen, half-heard, half-known things, if it only pushes us further into the haze?

*

“What would you know about this song? It’s from the 60’s.”

Is followed by a laugh that comes from a bellyful of warm soup and bread. He slowly shuffles away from the line singing along, “Baby, Baybee…” More laughs follow.

I dislike walking down this part of 28^th street for reasons that are the pet peeves of those who walk the streets of New York, but for moments like these…that will perhaps become ‘sepia-tinted’ memories.

*

I seem to recognize your face
Haunting, familiar yet, I can't seem to place it
Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name
Lifetimes are catching up with me…

All these changes taking place...

Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away…
– Eddie Vedder, ‘Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2z0cKtSlHOU

I see her standing next to the entryway of a Deli somewhere on 42^nd and 9^th. Dressed all in black except for the white hand-knitted headscarf. Frail body, but a steely erect spine. I notice her because she is standing at the exact point where the sunlight falls– all in black highlighted by the sun, while the rest of the street lies in shadows– the lazy brain has learnt to report photographic compositions. But today I am not seeking any more photographs or memories. Yet, looking at her I am reminded of Mrs. N.

Mrs. N in her classy chiffons leaving a trail of perfume. Mrs. N of the (what I always remember with a shiver as) cold mansion with massive glass cabinets filled with ceramic jars, crystal bowls and silver oddities. Mrs. N of the lavish Christmas Eve dinners. After dinner the guests in gratitude pocketed her silver tablespoons. She’ll hardly notice they thought. But she did. She was old, but even as a small child I knew, far from foolish.

The family has a black sheep who slips into the mansion at night and goes ‘baa, baa, baa’, they whispered. Never letting her rest in peace.

Mrs. N is dead, the newspapers reported. The police are looking at all possibilities, and for the moment have ruled out foul play.

In the only photograph of hers that I have, Mrs. N is wearing black.

*

Why should we recollect it all? Why can’t we just let the past lie as it is? Why must we understand everything?

A toddler wearing a woollen cap with a felted red rose is watching me intently. Her father is carrying her in his arms. She is carrying a stuffed giraffe in her hand. Towering above it all, with her head turned back she is looking at the world passing by. As I begin to think of another question why, she looks into my eyes and smiles.

Abandoning all reason, I smile back.

*

The blood moon has caused restlessness in the tide. The waves rush in, bang against the embankment, retreat and then return. Two gull are watching silently. The waterwheel– a creative evocation of the city’s past– turns slowly, the inscription next to it reads ‘Long Time’ and the descriptive arc engraved on it travels all the way from the big bang to the end of the earth (to be swallowed by a sun that has exhausted all its fuel). After Hurricane Sandy the counter has stopped recording the rotations. Such is the fate of all human endeavours. At some point they (should/must/can/will) stop.

How do we ever find our way?

The tide rushes in, bangs against the embankment and retreats again. The gulls rise, almost magnetically: 

Gonna rise up/ Find my direction magnetically: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QO191imv0s

“Such is the way of the world
You can never know
Just where to put all your faith
And how will it grow

Gonna rise up
Burning black holes in dark memories
Gonna rise up
Turning mistakes into gold

Such is the passage of time
Too fast to fold
Suddenly swallowed by signs
Low and behold

Gonna rise up
Find my direction magnetically
Gonna rise up
Throw down my ace in the hole” 
–  Eddie Vedder, ‘Rise’

Barking with the dog, bending with the irises

The snow has stopped falling. I am arguably the only person on this coast who will miss it.

*

“I never really understood

what he said

but every now and then

I find myself

barking with the dog

or bending with the irises

or helping out

in other little ways”

– Leonard Cohen, “Roshi” (Book Of Longing)

*

Yo soy yo y mi circunstancia.

– Ortega y Gasset

I am I and what is around me.

–translated by Gregory Rabassa

In my life I may not have earned a lot or understood a lot, but there is one thing that I have learnt: the world is divided into two kinds of people– those who help others (and in doing so seek to be “happy”– however you define that word) and those who don’t (i.e. who only help themselves and seek happiness in that). Racism, sexism and all that is used to signify the “other” (that which is not like me) are born out of these two conflicting impulses. And all such distinctions fall to the wayside when the former impulse overcomes the latter– maybe not yet on the “global” scale, but definitely, undeniably on the individual scale– the scale on which life is lived. Of course, choice plays a role and even individuals sway between the two impulses depending upon their circumstances.

There are few constants regarding human life– humans making the best of their circumstances is one of them. The more people I meet from more countries (arbitrary boundaries created by the later human impulse), the more I realize that each and everyone is a result of their circumstances, yet, united in the search for the same thing. Elmore Leonard made a thought-provoking statement that will endure for long:

"I never see my bad guys as simply bad. They want pretty much the same thing that you and I want: they want to be happy."

Perhaps I do not understand. Maybe tomorrow I will learn something new. Till then I choose to postpone all judgments.

*

The male Robin is spotted again on that stretch of the High Line Park. Yes, winter is over for now. And I must be the only person on this coast who will miss the snow– not the wind chill, not the slippery sidewalk, not the after-slush, the brown puddles or the yellow patches– just the falling snow; the silence it commands and the white blanket it spreads so effortlessly and indiscriminately (on the animate and the inanimate), nullifying all differences, forcing me to concentrate on that which is essential: to help in little ways.

January: Winter Silence

At around 2:45 PM the sun makes a comeback after its early morning visitation, and continuing the gradual ascent that began on 21^st December climbs a little bit further and pours down like honey, once again. And winter silence engulfs me; even in a city like New York; even on a Friday; even with the three towers under construction in the neighbourhood. All is calm and all is quiet.

Once again, I realize why, despite the bleakness bestowed on it by popular imagination, winter is the perfect time to be still. To listen. 

“I wake up–a winter silence fills my apartment

With the mystery of life–

               why here, why now, why me:   

               I wonder what birds are nesting at this cold hour

               in bushes by the river, hibernating in their feathers.

               I imagine they

              do not dream about war,

              each breath for them is a cleansing baptism of a constantly occurring miracle,

              each feather tucked snugly to contain warmth

              purifies each heart

              that beats to be what it is.

I must tell you I seek their wisdom

each day

casually study them as I walk the ditch bank–

they seem to understand there is no death in life,

their serene poise on water

beneath the leafless overhanging branches

is movement toward the center of love.”

– from ‘Winter Poems along the Rio Grande’ by Jimmy Santiago Baca 

An historic storm was always a possibility, not a promise. That possibility skipped our door. It visited some miles further away.

Most people left work by 5:00 PM. On a Monday! At the grocery store there were smiles and a few laughs as we picked up bread and milk and extra batteries. By 9:00 PM the city that never sleeps was preparing to get some rest. Except of course the first responders and the road crews, whose long working hours had only just begun.

Late in the night, I woke to joyous laughter. It was 2:30 AM. Some people were making snow angels on the powdered sidewalk.

“Well, you know that I love to live with you

But you make me forget so very much I forget to pray for the Angel 
And then the Angels forget to pray for us”

(“So Long Marianne” by Leonard Cohen)

I watched till they did their penguin walk deep into the haze. And then slept undisturbed till 8:00 AM. The city was so quiet that you could have heard the rats scurrying in their underground chambers. (What a difference the absence of motor vehicles makes.)

Braving the blustery conditions, we meet for coffee. There is nothing to say. Time and space fill even the most contentious of subjects with silence. And ours wasn’t even an argument. We have always erred on the side of silence.

Holding our tiny cups of ‘single origin pour over espressos’ we are standing by the window. The gallery crowds are walking, pausing, peering in and then opening the door and stepping in– in an endless loop­– considering that almost every second door is a door to another gallery. The deliverymen on their bicycles are rushing by with sushi and pad thai lunches. The dog walker waiting at the stoplight is adjusting her gloves, while the dogs are sniffing the snow on the sidewalk. A man in a long black coat is muttering to himself (probably talking on the phone). After much aimless pecking a pigeon has found a pizza piece. The shop assistant is taking a cigarette break. 

The city has organized a pantomime. On the other side of the glass standing in silence, we are listening intently– to the sound of silence. And the snow begins to fall.

This silence

remembers in its deep dark chords and drums

a life beyond this life,

a beauty beyond this beauty.

– Jimmy Santiago Baca

It's a chicken and duck problem

says the person who doesn't smoke a pipe, unlike Sherlock Holmes.

There are days when you look around and realise that every major conversation taking place in the mainstream media– be it television, books, newspapers, magazines or the social media– is taking place from the point of view of a white person– mostly a straight, white man, occasionally a straight, white woman. Pick any topic from any part of the world. That is how f**ked things are.

So what to do? Pick up the color pencils and start drawing, that's what. First a duck, then a chicken, then a duck, then a chicken...mindlessly drifting at the rate of one pencil stroke at a time. My own self behind pushing forward the self in front.*

Water color pencils and charcoals on any paper on hand.

*I asked of Destiny, “Tell me who with relentless hand pushes me on?”

Destiny told me to look behind.

I turned and saw my own self behind pushing forward the self in front.

– Rabindranath Tagore

Lately

A few days back I revived my Instagram account. Do look it up if you are around: http://instagram.com/anvita_lakhera
                                                       *
Remember a post I did on reading and how publishing is "whitest white and male dominated". Well, if you've followed recent events then you'd have come across this (among many articles regarding the same on the 'watermelon joke'):
Why is American book publishing so white: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/dec/02/american-publishing-white

*

In other news, they are back in town. Migrant gulls in large numbers come flying over the city rivers in winter, be it the Hudson or the Thames. White darts swooshing past my windows, carrying sunlight on their wings. 

*

While the resident house sparrows seem much satisfied with the bounty offered by grasses going to seed. Thank you very much.

*

At some point in time autumn without a word to anyone, adhering to a well-clocked schedule, peaked. All before the rains came in.

*

Sleet on Thanksgiving brought to mind what it would be like in the coming months. Autumn is a far-away dream. Already.

“Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.”
– Mark Strand, “Lines for Winter”  (RIP elegant, beautiful poet.)