you

my eyes, my ears, my life, you,

there are times when i wonder if i imagined you. but if i empty out my pockets i find evidence of you. if i bleed out my heart, the healing clots are made from memories of you. if i open my eyes you are the person i want to see. you are my morning light and my night sky. is it true that love is blind?

then i am blind.
blind to your hollow stares when you return my adoring gaze.

then i am deaf.
deaf to the condescending murmurs when you reply to my coquetry.

then i am dead.
dead without you to bookmark my worth.

you.
you are without me.
and i no longer have my eyes, my ears, my life, you.

radio noise

i turn on the radio to have a voice to listen to, to make the pains of my loneliness all the less sharp. i listen to every crisp enunciated word of the queen's english on bbc. i hang on to every word, authoritative and yet soft like my memories of growing up in foreign lands, where i would seek out a recognizable language over short-wave frequencies. i listen, i listen, i listen. but who will listen to me? who will hear about my fears, dreams and experiences? i turn up the volume on my radio to drown out the loneliness. the silence of my heart.

back to the future

i brace myself. embrace. i smooth my hair down tightly. into a middle parting from my high school heavy metal days.

i'm moving back to nyc. it's not the perfect scenario, but more a check with reality and a courtesy call with practicality.

i think i will move back to the same apartment i left behind and return to the same office that supported my sojourn overseas. but of course things will be same same but different.

it will be like a dream sequence, where memories are distorted and mixed up. a tingling deja vu that is somehow not quite truly deja.

i wonder what my life will be like. i think of scouring through craigslist to look for the life i should acquire upon my return, my re-emergence into ny society.

i will return to ny with a 1 year vacancy period.

i have gone through powershedding, water shortages, pollution, monsoon rapids.

i will easily sink back into the restaurant and bar scene, the daily dress-up parties and glamourous imagination.

i bite my lips. i bleed out the venomous pain. drip by drip. drip.

there will be the safety of old friends and the joy of getting to know the new friends that i met while i lived out here. a mix of the new and old. like a bride wearing something borrowed, something new.

my new york city dorian gray

it is saturday afternoon and i lay here, on my 800 thread count sheets, living an existence typical of cherried new york living: having an indulgent read of the new york times dining and fashion & style pages with a npr feed of iron & wine playing in the background; a belly full from a seared lamb osso bucco and slow brewed tea from burmese plantations. yet my zipcode, or the lack thereof, belies the fact that i have found a new home with the himalayas serving as real everyday wallpaper.

the irony is that returning to new york pains me. the thought transports me into a dark hole which any recovering addict will recognize. one knows how wrong it is to retreat into a pattern that only reveals one's weaknesses and flaws, yet there is something awkwardly right and somehow poetically beautiful, borderline cowardly, to show one's vulnerability and addiction. what better way to fight off the tormenting daze of temptation that is nyc, that is of nyc, than to avoid it all together, merely to replace that track of addiction with another more socially acceptable euphemism for "obsession" ?

i left nyc behind to fulfill my fantasies of doing development work; to remind me of what i have rather than what i don't have.
and yet after 6 months of being clean, i make a trip to bangkok to replenish my need to consume, to remind me of the pleasure of possession. i leave bangkok thousands of dollars poorer, but materially wealthier with a new macbook, ipod, jbl speakers and a bottle of truffle oil. i caress the sleek curves of my macbook and gloat in merely having truffle oil; too scared to open the bottle due to the realization that one day it will be gone.

i try to reflect upon why i avoid committing to an answer when the people i left behind ask me of my return date. i wonder why i dread to go back: is it because i will no longer be able to afford eating decadent meals of imported steak and wine in a hindu country; is it because i will have to leave behind the woman that comes to my house 6 days a week to clean up after my trails of privilege; or is it because i know that i will go back as a changed person but nyc's selfishness will not allow me to maintain my new perspective, outlook and habits? it will claim back the old me in order for me to assimilate into the old role and place i once held.

i think of the portrait of dorian gray as nyc reflecting back at me my own disfigurements and affinity for debauchery. and so rather than to gauge my day by day demise, i keep my distance and reel in proximity when i need to, with a virtual leap to nyc through nytimes.com. and so i continue to read the ny times with my curtains drawn, watching the sun sink into the himalayan horizon.

himalayan hop(e)s

it took me awhile to write as during the first few months here in my new country of residence, i was busy trying to manage my disappointment and dashed hopes. i found myself transformed into a tired person, exhausted from being frustrated and living with unfulfilled wishes. and i did not want my words to reflect so much negativity.

i tried to capture so many moments, so many thoughts about life here that would convince me of my happiness. i reminded myself of the postcard marvels available -- the lord buddha's birthplace, tibetan buddhists and hindus praying side by side in the same temples, the himalayas serving as an everyday backdrop. yet somehow it was a life that i felt disconnected from. in truth it was the dicotomy of what i wanted this country to be rather than the reality of its being. it is similar to the people here who automatically speak to me in their native tongue, but slowly retreat into disappointed english when i tell them that i am not from here, do not belong to them, but from a cousin land.

it took me awhile to get used to things here and to stop comparing it to things i knew and to stop matching it up to the hopes and images i had for my projected experience. i had all these notions of what i wanted to get out of this country professionally which in this political climate, really were not realistic.

the mountain vistas seemed like mere rumours upon my arrival through the monsoon mists and garbage strewn streets. but months later, i finally came to terms with the universal frustrations of working here with a fettered role and managed to look at how to accomplish some of my goals rather than hold on to the weight of meeting a lifetime's worth of expectations.

i also managed to travel around the country a bit which allowed me to see the country i wanted. everytime i look at the photos i took during my treks, i still have to gasp in awe of the country's beauty. yes, i am developing a crush on this place after a bad start to my courtship.

i am living in a period of many hopes for the people here. the constituent election is to be held in april. a chance for inclusion and a voice in government is to come to fruition after many years of silence and lack of recognition. a vote for a hope. and yet the lead up to the election brings fears, with security becoming a haunting caution. explosions in public areas with civilian deaths and casualties occur in rhythmic regularity.

as people perform their pujas in the mornings and spin the prayer wheels, i wonder what they pray for? do they pray for good husbands, better harvest, or a new democracy?

will they pray for me?

a study in goodbye; an etching of hellos

time has lapsed with me unable to hold onto the tailend of is memories. much has changed since i committed my experiences to virtual paper. and with the changes, cycles have spun through: deaths and rebirth; sleep and consciousness; activity and dormancy.

i have left new york after 13 years of threats to leave it behind. but like a desperate lover, it kept seducing me back with new promises, hinted hopes of a different life together. and i stayed on, believing in its earnestness and turning a blind eye to its gilded words. but in those 13 years, i knew deep down that we would not wed. i would not and could not call ny my love nor home.

willyburb blurb

eyes: eyeliner underlines; check box
lips: glitter luster pout; check box

another friday night in williamsburg. a night at 3rd ward, 30,000 sq. ft. of artist workspace for every artistic discipline and desire. (http://www.3rdwardbrooklyn.org/)

the slim hips do not infringe upon anyone's hipness. most of the guys never seemed to have grown out of their akward adolescence. rather, thoughtfully greased hair and mismatched polyesters are embraced and arranged.

is that a fumble? no it's a modern dance move. is that too much feed on the amps? no. it's experimental music dude. get with the programme.