Monday, November 30, 2009
not my poems or a dance i gave up in the street
but somebody almost walked off wid alla my stuff
like a kleptomaniac workin hard & forgettin while stealin
this is mine
this aint yr stuff
now why don't you put me back & let me hang out in my own self
somebody almost walked off wit alla my stuff
& didn't care enuf to send a note home sayin
i was late for my solo conversation
or two sizes to small for my own tacky skirts
what can anybody do wit somethin of no value on a open market
did you getta dime for my things
where are you goin wid alla my stuff
this is a woman’s trip & i need my stuff to ohh & ahh abt
daddy I gotta mainline number from my own shit
now wontchu put me back& let me play this duet
wit this silver ring in my nose
honest to god
somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff
& i didnt bring anythin but the kick & sway of it
the perfect ass for my man & none of it is theirs
this is mine
ntozake 'her own things'
that's my name
now give me my stuff
i see ya hidin my laugh
& how i sit wif my legs open sometimes
to give my crotch some sunlight
& there goes my love my toes my chewed up finger nails
wif the curls in yr hair
mr. louisiana hot link
i want my stuff back
my rhytums & my voice
open my mouth
& let me talk ya outta
throwin my shit in the sewar
is some delicate leg & whimsical kiss
gotta have to give to my choice
without you runnin off wit alla my shit
now you cant have me less i give me away
& i waz doin all that
til ya run off on a good thing
who is this you left me wit
some simple bitch widda bad attitude
i wants my things
i want my arm wit the hot iron scar
& my leg wit the flea bite
i want my calloused feet & quik language back in my mouth
pineapple pear juice
sun-ra & joseph & jules
i want my own things
how i lived them
& give me my memories
how i waz when i waz there
you cant have them or do nothin wit them
stealin my shit from me
dont make it yrs
makes it stolen
somebody almost run off wit alla my stuff
& i waz standin there
lookin at myself
the whole time
& it waznt a spirit took my stuff
waz a man whose ego walked round like Rodan's shadow
waz a man faster n my innocence
waz a lover
i made too much room for
almost run off wit alla my stuff
& i didnt know i'd give it up so quik
& the one runnin wit it
don't know he got it
& i'm shoutin this is mine
& he dont know he got it
my stuff is the anonymous ripped off treasure of the year
did you know somebody almost got away wit me
me in a plastic bag under their arm
me danglin on a string of personal carelessness
i'm spattered wit mud & city rain
& no i didnt get a chance to take a douche
this is not your perogative
i gotta have me in my pocket
to get round like a good woman shd
& make the poem in the pot or the chicken in the dance
what i got to do
i gotta get my stuff to do it to
why dont ya find yr own things
& leave this package of me for my destiny
what ya got to get from me
i'll give it to ya
i'll give it to ya
round 5:00 in the winter
when the sky is blue-red
& Dew City is gettin pressed
if it's really my stuff
ya gotta give it to me
if ya really want it
i'm the only one
can handle it
From the choreopoem For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf by Ntozake Shange ("En-toh-zaa-kay Shong-ey")
The thing is, you are the person you are. People can only do so much to you; beyond that, you can always reclaim yourself, you can try yet again to be the person you always dreamt of being. You are the sum of your intentions more than you can ever be the sum of your actions. So, I believe, it's never too late to try again to be that wonderful person you are so capable of being.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Vicky and I took the Howrah Rajdhani on Friday afternoon. How the mighty are fallen… these new coaches are pathetic. The side berths are too small and too narrow for comfort and the service sucks. And the damn train was 2 hours late. We were carrying two suitcases of Mejopishi's so Anindyakaku very sweetly picked us up from the station.
Eventually, we spent just over a day in Delhi. But we got to meet the Mad Family and I got to meet Rads. Shopping happened. Vicky’s mum had asked for curtains, so I got her some from Sarojini. Very pretty ones too. Some funny animal socks for the boy and a couple of summer tops from Cottons and that was it. Pretty disciplined shopping, I think. The Mad Momma and the OA fed us and watered us and took us around so all in all, I think they’ve pretty much justified their existence. Oh and she found my butterfly earring. It's one of my favourites and I thought I'd lost it down the drain, so really, as a hostess she's rated pretty high just now. Even if my cutlery wasn't perfectly aligned on my plate.
Brat’s grown so much. His smile is just as full of mischief as ever and he first ignored me and then taunted me and then cuddled into me liked we never fought. I missed Rahul horribly just then.
Vicky decided to make faces at the Bean. The man just doesn’t learn. She took it for a while and then tugged at MM, saying piteously, “Excuse me Mamma, that man is scaring me.” When that didn’t work, she tugged at me and repeated, “Excuse me, that man is scaring me again.” I tried to explain that Vicky couldn’t scare little girls if his life depended on it but she wasn’t having any of it. I think it’s the beard, myself. No doubt he’ll never shave it off now.
It was lovely meeting Oye Pancho unexpectedly. Dude, I owe for that bike ride. And the hot dog. Look me up if you ever come this way, OK?
It was a good trip. We ate "ghol ghappey" and squabbled over accents and insults flew thick and fast and we pigged at the drop of a hat. Good fun.
It felt good traveling with Vicky. Just the two of us wandering around an airport. We seem to have a lot of time to ourselves these days. I miss Rahul then but at these times I remember how much I enjoyed Vicky’s company at one point. (Don’t nitpick, I still do, just saying it reminds me of the good old days.)
We saw Kurbaan last night. I thought it was pretty good, reviews notwithstanding. It’s not great art maybe but it’s definitely value for my money. Ma brought Rahul back this morning and I can’t wait to go home now.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Their food is great although I'm still disappointed the waffle maker wasn't working, but their service is more friendly than efficient. And their ambience focuses more on providing semi-comfortable seating than it does on ensuring that their patrons can actually communicate with one another or, indeed, with the servers! In other words, the music system was bloody loud.
Trying to make the best of things, there was this one electrifying moment when Dana completely lost her shit and screamed out "Shut up!" mid-sentence and once I'd gotten over the fact that she hadn't just yelled at me, I wanted to jump up and hug her. Because, people, we all know it's bad manners and not quite what Ms. Post would like us to do, but for one second there, it was what I wanted to do. Just tell the people to shut the music up so we could actually hear ourselves talk.
And in the Metro this morning I found myself cursing out some utter morons travelling in the same compartment as me. Bloody rude, illiterate, totally kickable fuckfaces. And they weren't even actually doing something especially bad. Some days I would give a great deal to actully be Jack Nicholson from As Good As It Gets but if you ever tell Beq I admitted this I will totally deny it.
Sue is now leaving the building. She will be back next Monday. And just to rub it in, she will be in Delhi over the weekend, eating good food. There, you can go back to your miserable lives now.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I shall blog at this blog I started already (so you can't go by the date on the first post, doh) and I may visit your blog and leave comments. I say I may because of course, I could just do what I do best and lurk. You can take the Sue out of the blogger but you can't take the blogger out of the Sue, can you?
Heh, bet you never even saw that witticism coming.
Anyway, so this is my plan. Feel free to glare suspiciously at all unknown commentors. Maybe, if I feel all friendly and generous, some time in Jan I shall let you know which one I am. Or perhaps, if I like my new voice better, I'll just shift gears.
Ooh, driving terminology 'n' all.
So, well, don't say I never declared the show open.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
I walked home from the Metro (there weren't too many rickshaws plying) in pouring rain, telling myself it was just a funny coincidence.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Anyway, so when he joined school last January, I figured his teachers would teach him English. I believe they've been trying to do just that but with a marked lack of success. People told me I need to rectify this 'failing', because it would hamper him in big school but really, come on. English is my language of choice. Vicky and I speak about as much English in a day as we do Bengali. Even if we didn't speak it to the boy, he definitely heard it. So I was puzzled and rather suspicious when I was told that he can't follow the language.
A month ago his teacher requested us to please speak to him in English at home so that he'd be more comfortable trying to speak in it as well. Vital for school admissions, apparently. So I tried, didn't get very far, although he did learn enough to call himself Sunayana Roy and me Soubhik Niyogy and his jethu (the BIL) Kingshuk Sharabh Niyogy. Still, no real progress seemingly but all the while I was more and more convinced he followed us perfectly when we spoke in English.
Yesterday we were at Giga's in the evening, out for a little airing after a flue-ridden fortnight. Dididi (aka Giridi, Giga's help) had just returned from the shops, bearing a carton of juice for Himself when I decided that he ought to have dinner instead. The following conversation took place:
Me: Let's not give him the J-U-I-C-E just now.
Giga: Is the J-U-I-C-E here already?
Vicky: I think she's back.
Little Pitcher: Eshe gechhe? ("She's back?")
The next time somebody tells me he doesn't understand English, I'll, well, I'll probably make them babysit for a week. If that isn't punishment I don't know what is. Not only can the little blighter understand us all perfectly, he is also picking up on the spelled words. Whatever next!
Sunday, November 08, 2009
It seems an African Prince was educated in England where he developed a fine regard for democratic principles that complemented his own strong character.
Shortly after he graduated and returned, his father died and he became king. He determined to apply the fine principles and be a good and honest leader of rather than over his people.
His first action was to do away with a symbol of previous times, the ancient historical ebony throne, which was stored in the attic.
Sadly he died that night when the heavy throne fell through the roof onto his bed. It proves that people who live in grass houses shouldn’t stow thrones.
Edited to add:
While you're at the site, check out this discussion on modern manners. I found the idea intriguing.
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
He spent the night with her and I missed him so. He's been such a darling buffer these last days, I didn't know I was depending on him so much.