OCT 5 ‘09

It’s still October 3, 2009, actually, but I have gotten ahead of myself, having written three blog entries while flying from India to here, and I have a hunger, if not a desperation, to connect with the Man in the Black Hat to whom I am going to add three more people, in my mind, at least, to come up with an audience of four: Neelam, Judy Bernstein, Jori Owens, and of course, the Man in the Black Hat, who I am going to name, Mabha. For now. The reason why he will stay as my primary audience is because he is always there, and he will stay throughout, till my last blog, no, Blag. Remember, it is the word I have given for my blabs here. I can always count on him, and he is ever present and ready to listen. Such, my dears, is the power of the Imagination to solve and resolve our life, and not only that, but sweeten it.

And I am in need of sweetening. Desperately. My landings in the West (I spend six months in Del Mar, California, and six in the Himalayan state of Himachal Pradesh, in the Kullu Valley, land of the gods, India), are always very rough. I will describe in detail later (or perhaps never; my urge to communicate here is such that I have little patience for details, and often even the rules of grammar. The devil is in them, as they say, perhaps because they require so much labor), but in brief: jet lag; being wrenched away from all my connections in India, from a jostling, bustling life with dogs and domestic help, mother, siblings (often frustrating and chafing), and friends, specially two very new and sweet ones, Muzaffar Ali (check him out on the net) and Mike Pandey (check him out in the latest Time Magazine, of Oct 3, I think, the issue on the environment); a sense of isolation and exile in the USA – believe me, Payson and I had a box full of snail mail waiting for us, with not one fucking personal thing. It was all about money: bills, takes, CDs, receipts, bank statements, catalogs asking you to buy, buy, buy; returning to a house and garden neglected for six months, even though we have had help working on them; bone tiredness; too much to do; too much in a hurry to do it all (not letting myself rest), and do it at once so I can get down to the real business and passion of my life, writing.

I always fall into a funk on my return. And after a brief nap in which I dreamt about thugs stealing all my diamonds (though they were nice thugs and the possibility of retrieving them was strong), I prepared a bath for myself, poured a few drops of apricot oil I had got from Kullu in the water (almost wept sentimentality at this connection), and a cap full of lavender oil, I lit two candles, played a bit of Gurmeet Singh Shant’s kirtan – Phai Rai, Ram Kaho chit laye – returned to my center, and thought of you. Yes, you, my sweet audience, I thought of you, and I was filled with purpose, motivation and love. After my bath I would write here, tell you my all, connect, send and receive love and all would be well.

So here I am, drumming away at the keyboard, chewing the succulent fat of words, and in my exile and isolation, connecting with my web of friends, imaginary and real, feeling nourished and at peace.

Posted by kamla Oct 5th 2009

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