Ego: December 2003 Archives

Dhobi ka kutha, na ghar ka na ghat ka

This has been the most productive weekend since forever...

Yéh, müch say küch waasta nahin hè... I see that now

...and the mountain of leftover stuffing I've just consumed seals it; I think I'm smiling again.

Walking along Upper James, last night, a single tear rolled down my left cheek. I don't know what I was thinking, but things, an entire collection of this and thats, are really starting to get to me right now. I hate losing control, I hate losing it in public even more, and I've been host to this fucking melancholy state all weekend long. Sometimes it irritates me, being human.

The winter darkness isn't friendly, but to say that it lacked atmosphere would be way off the mark. And it's only really in winter that the waters of the Thames seem to get as angry as I like to remember them; the early failure of the light, the depth of the darkness that follows, the cold and the rain, they can turn the mood of our old father like nothing else.

The last time I saw the river like this was with my dear friend, Peter, crossing it in the darkness, as tonight - albeit alone - the lights of the city brightly reflected in its lustrous blackness, and made ephemeral by the dancing waves and riffles at the surface. In a moment of casual recklessness, I lost myself completely to the movement of the water, peering down and across toward Westminster, as the rain came on with an ever increasing vitality. It took me 32 minutes full to become aware that I had been soaked through, but it was okay; I was at home there in the dark, in the rain. I knew peace.

Who can fault that?

On a secluded stretch of beach, in the shadow of Le’ahi, the body of a little boy tumbles in the waves.

I don’t think I’ve ever saved a life before. Besides my own.

I’m drowning.

At least, not in any direct sense; I’ve thrown no children clear of oncoming juggernauts, never had to administer cardio-pulmonary resusc., tie a tourniquet, or perform the Heimlich manoeuvre in any situation other than jest.

The waves that roll onto the shores of Waikiki beach are immense. Away from the sand, in the open water, these understated, heaving polyphemes buoy you up and down in rhythmic succession, a slow and gentle caress.

Then, it is neither easy nor sensible to try to fathom the myriad differences that your absence could, would, have made to the world around. I've had people cry disconsolately, hard against my chest, yank me violently from my peaceable dreams to face their realities at zero hour, had cause to fear the suicide, pains of anorexia, sexual assault, or depression of people I love as well as those I know next to nothing about.

Only to crash onto the shore without compromise. What value has any medal when your skills in the water are trivialised by such an overwhelming power? Squeezed into a ball, I can straighten neither arms nor legs, nor gain purchase, nor orientate myself; I can't breathe.

And there are times when I just don't want to know, but can't stop listening.

Desperation keeps my eyes open, though all I can see is the white rush of the water, loaded with biting grit. I inhale, an accident, but choke in shock, my lungs seizing as if winded by a blow to the ribs. It is now that I really do see lights, like a white aurora dotted with stars, overwhelming everything. Then fingers. They tear across my scalp, holding me fast by my hair, and heave me into the shallows.

It doesn't seem fair, at times, but I guess that there could be a thousand and two different reasons for which any one person should come to depend so unreasonably, so heavily, upon themselves.

I gasp for air, and throw up violently. She kicks me in the ribs with a stern grin, "Be more careful next time!", and scampers off. I think she missed the enormity of what she did for me, just then.

Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? a lover once put to me.

Really. Who does?

i never hide my thoughts from you; you're my deepest blue

I hear my name, I know the voice, I know that not hearing does sometimes work.

Again, "Oi, Robinson!"

Right.

Busy? No, there are two assignments due in the morning, which you doubtless care a great deal about, and I'd planned to milk the school's army of pygmy marmosets before pushing on with the essays, but I have all the fucking time in the world for you. What's that? Nothing. Bloody faggot, c'mere.

The boys in the house - we number about 70 - have always been able to choose their rooms, and so the tendency is for complementary personalities, the different cliques, to gather along certain corridors. There are some, usually more sensitive individuals, who avoid particular passageways for this reason.

The chap in question isn't bright, but he's obedient, and happy to be a certain way in order to keep in good nic with his clique, the important people; someone I can neither admire, nor despise, there are those who I can't even feel sorry for.

He ushers me into a room, where four others are waiting. I'm aware of the blindfold. The plastic poster tube held in one person's hand. The pellet gun on the table. The victim. I understand.

In front of my feet, in the emptiness of the floor, I sense a place, shameful but somehow easier to face than what is coming, where I can go, to will myself elsewhere; it seems very much the safeguard of my own wellbeing, to turn inward. But I won't, and eventually, I come through.

There are some, usually more sensitive individuals, who avoid particular passageways for this reason. I don't because I'm proud, and I can't afford to spend the precious moments of my life living in fear and paranoia at the expense of everything else. Sometimes I remember, and I feel that I should be angry, but I'm not. I just don't care about the details; the crushing moments of terror that followed taught me more about my own vitality than any other, single event in my life, and I wasn't disappointed with what I saw within myself. I would hate to go through similar again, but fate dealt me a lenient hand, on the grander scale; part of me will always be grateful for the injury.

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We're only nineteen days short of the most important date in the Northern Hemisphere calendar; that's enough to cheer the spirits of this oppugnant of non-apparent daylight, perennial greyness and a distinct lack of contrast in the world around. Don't get me wrong; bracing cold isn't so soul destroying when accompanied by skies of brilliant azure and sunshine aplenty, but heavy skies, while worthy for the power that they wield over my moods, are easily tired of when they become the norm. I curse the crazy fools who, in the extreme heat of the summer past, yearned vociferously for the cold. You got your wish; you've had enough; I have to endure. Don't be fooled, I'm in a brilliant mood.

I was invited to be the live-in houseboy of three different people at a Thanksgiving dinner this weekend; two gay men, one gay female. All because I made a tiramisu on Saturday morning. Food works wonders, no?

Novel, but I declined... low salaries.