K.I.S.S

I feel like writing for Paris.

A letter of love to her.

A poem.

A story.

An ode.

A book.

Something that will capture what it means to me that she reads what I write.

That she loves what I write.

That she checks every two days for an update even when I go months without writing.

And I realize as I note these points… that this is more a love letter from her to me than vice a versa.

And I cannot top it with any words.

My Piggy Bank

Tradition. From the Latin ‘traditionem’. Meaning “handing over, passing on”.

Nowadays most often we hear the word tradition in context to religious and cultural practices being hard headedly carried out or defiled- in both cases creating a furore. And in this set meaning on passing on. But I like what tradition means in the present sense. In the now. I like the continuity it symbolizes. It’s like procreating without the hard hours of screaming labour.

Our family has a tradition of spending summer holidays together. The entire Flanagan clan collects at the family home before taking off for a holiday together. Four generations together – children spilling out of bosoms, grandparent throwing tantrums, cousins sharing traumas, one generation misunderstanding the other, lazy days spent hiding under the fan to escape the scorching heat, lazier evenings in a swimming pool and long nights of planned and unplanned adventures. You love, you crib, you enjoy, you say you’re never coming back again, you do come back again, you watch the young ones grow, you avoid your elders, you hug a child close, you try to find a quiet corner, you play cards, you discuss books passionately with your young niece, you kiss each child good night, you mediate in fights between relatives, you wonder how you aren’t deaf yet, you rediscover why you hate and love to be a Flanagan. It is a great tradition.

I want to create many more. I want others to make their own and make me part of their pacts with life.

In the past year, this thing called Life and growing up has taken its toll on a lot of India’s crowd. Everyone’s working, juggling no less than three sets of families they have to satisfy, trying to be comfortable with who they’re maturing up to be… as well as eke time out for each other. Things are different. Alanis worries that being married and moving to another country is going to tell on her connection with all of us here but the sad truth is that just living in different suburbs seems to be enough. Because a girl’s life is made of immediate things and tiny joys. A great hair day, an impromptu middle of the night walk, a song that made you cry, a moment of desolation that came and went before you could hit the dial button… and unlike in college when all of us lived in the same house and shared every passing minute… now we’re lucky to meet once a month.

But I’m rooting for traditions to combat modern life. That’s what they’re supposed to do anyway right… join people together across time and place in a joint activity, feeling and hope?

So here I am making a bunch of traditions. To quote: Some traditions were deliberately invented for one reason or another, often to highlight or enhance the importance of a certain institution. Traditions may also be changed to suit the needs of the day, and the changes can become accepted as a part of the ancient tradition.

1. The first of these was made years ago with Harry – a weekly dinner table conversation. And Christmas eve together. We’ve managed to keep to this more or less.
2. An annual holiday with the Four… so far so good.
3. Always, always kiss each of the children goodnight and talk to each individually about whatever they like.
4. Dropping by Frederick’s uninvited for a surreal evening of abrasiveness, affection and a fuzzy reality that is quiet and says nothing.

I want many, many, many more… with Paris, with Mars and Paris, with Sky, with my home as the centre of a tradition… If it’s Christmas we’re going to India’s. And then a fortnightly dinner plan at someone’s house. A monthly weekend away with friends – old and new.

That’s another thought. Everywhere I go I meet people that I like so much that you feel like you’re just making so many friends when you don’t even find time to bond with the one’s you have. There might be a balance to strike but there’s joy in growing a family. And it’s a lovely feeling when someone new seems to meld seamlessly into a circle you’ve already built.

I just want to end on a memory that Paris and I were thinking about yesterday.

It’s the old millennium. Paris and I have just met a month or so ago in college. We’re part of a larger group that hangs out together and movie plans have been made. It’s great. It’s a new youth flick, we’ll be going in a fun large gang, eating pop corn, hooting, going out for dinner, etc. College bonding with people you’re thinking you might be friends with.

And then by the time the day rolled around, everyone dropped out for some reason or another. I don’t remember why.

So there we were, two relative strangers thinking, ‘umm… should I offer to postpone the plan when the whole group can be there and when it’ll be fun?” And we didn’t. We said, “to hell with it… let’s watch a movie.” We went and made fun of a shitty film and found that we didn’t need other people to make a plan fun. In fact we didn’t need other people to make a plan. That was true when we were ‘relative strangers’ and I’m guessing that it will be true now… when we are, for lack of a better word, friends.

Matthew 21:22 and Luke 11:9

I have nothing to write. I haven’t felt possessed and overtaken by a need to write in a long while. The persons that used me before, the haunted lost girl, the old Irish woman, the libertine playwright, the fey changeling have forgotten my body. I fumble to string together words that might be a story, a history, an argument, a hope, a lie, a discovery, an epiphany, a forgotten minute, a beloved secret or a note to Paris of half felt ideas that might seem whole to her.

The moon is nothing but a string of stars closely packed together like a ball of wool. They’re strung on platinum wire and hence the shine.
My fingers bloat and then stretch and stretch till they’re thin and cackly like a witch’s laugh.
Every surface is a dance floor.
If you don’t believe in love at first sight… you’ve just forgotten the first time you met. I want to travel back lifetimes and meet again for the first time.
Gold is our color. Rich, pagan, a houri on a block, painted queen and lion eyes.
I’m a word. So are you. The word is the biggest secret of our lives. Most often it is hidden even from ourselves.
If the world was simple a kiss would just be a kiss.
I’m waiting to slip sideways into another world. Imagine how exciting it will be. Poof. Sometimes I think I have. Women in saris fly on bears for their honeymoon. Once I was hurt, I lay down and became an icicle. I’d love to mix up the worlds so that everyone was traveling to and fro and then one day you’d all visit and I’d show you around.
I promise to do better tomorrow are the only words I always mean.