HERstory

from hell to heaven

this blog turned one a few days ago.

i never dreamed it would last this long or affect so many...

i'd like to celebrate this amazing little birthday by reprinting my favourite post from last year. it was nominated for a Blog mela and it's a piece that means the world to me (not to mention that it's a welcome respite from recent writings):

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"JUST LIKE HEAVEN"
Originally posted on September 26, 2003

darling philip daniel,

late last night, i was uploading pictures of you to my flog, imagining witty replies on your behalf, that were worthy of your gorgeous expressiveness.

an apparition loomed in the distant corner of the family room. it was your mother, my beautiful best friend Fides, alabaster skin aglow, looking at me. she beckoned, "come, come!" and i threw down my precious vaio, without care to how it bounced on my coffee table. "what's wrong?" my heart ended up in my throat, a place it has grown accustomed to being, since you came in to my life. my heart raced and i was by her side in a flash..."what!"

she smiled that serene sweetness that made me think of my favourite statue of the blessed virgin and took me by the hand in to the guest room. "come watch him sleep." my heart dropped back in to its rightful place and i happily walked around the Rice Bed to peer at you, nestled between my pillows snugly. my white down comforter floated above your perfect legs like a cloud; how apposite, considering you are our little angel baby. one of your pudgy hands grasped the seam of my comforter so fiercely, baby nails digging in to feather, your delectable knuckles reduced to pindots on the back of your luxurious little hand. i was lost in those dimples, one, two, three, four.

you are four months old, and yet your grip on my comforter, my finger or the neckline of my dress is ferocious. where does all of that strength come from, angel baby? you weigh all of 15 pounds, my little pudgesicle, and yet four of the tiniest fingers i've ever seen can grip my heart like a vise. i find it so poignant that though you are tiny and helpless, you are able to pull up blankets when you need warmth; i take this as validation of your sublime potential...already you are fending for yourself, in a small way, in this big world.

your other arm stretches out like the hand of God on its way to David, and my breath catches on the elegance of your finger, pointing at what darling? what do you dream of that makes your lips pout and then round to a perfect shocked "O". you are kicking your cloud, but it loves you and like all of us, wants to be near you, so it hovers, as all good goose down comforting clouds should, over your delicious legs. i smile a wide smile and murmur, "that's my boy." and your mother looks up at me, eyes round and filled with love for you..."what's that?" she whispers, and i pull away your cloud, temporarily. your timing is perfect, godson, for as soon as i do, your right leg unfurls a mighty kick that makes your entire body shake. i grow smug and i grab your flawless ankle.

"he has a FOOT. this one is playing soccer. for sure."

she smiles at me indulgently and laughs as she points to her successful midsection, and i remember how when you were inside her, i thought you were the thing from alien, what with the way you made her body move from all your kicking. how could i have been so weirded out by that, when it was the very ankle i was holding last night that was causing such commotion? i shake my head at my own stupidity.

you turn your head, and your abundant cheek smashes against the mattress, an ample pillow for your blessed face. your lips are made in to a rosebud by this, and i am simply overwhelmed. you don't seem real. you are too amazing, too powerful, surely you are divine. your body looks as if you were cast in marble, your skin gives off such an eternal sort of glow. i am mesmerized again by your arm, so white against my red sheets. red is the colour of fortune, i remind myself, and the next time i blink, i briefly ask God to shower you with every good and perfect thing you obviously deserve.

the velocity of your dream is too much for you to bear and your head whips over, your arms stretch out and up, and your legs kick out froggily. i am using every cell in my body to refrain from grabbing you and clutching you to me, to comfort you and protect you from the monsters in your dreams. your legs extend completely, toes pointed, every muscle clenched, and your arms wave aimlessly. how it aches to not snatch you up, in your dream you are searching for one of us to hold you and we both are here...but you need your sleep angel baby. i think my heart is going to break. your eyelids flutter and i will you back to the land of nod. the fury has passed; your arms drop, slack, and your legs bend back to their natural curve. you are spent, and you exhale to emphasize it.

i have just noticed how you breathe. my zen instructors would hold you up as a model of proper breathing, little one. you fill your little buddha tummy with air and send it out completely. your precious, amazing stomach is so plump and it grows plumper with every breath you take. your pale, daffodil-coloured onesie stretches with your exertion, and i can't help myself. i rest my right hand on your tummy, to feel you breathe. you are radiating heat. this is what i love most about you. you get so hot when you sleep, "sweaty boy!" your mom forever exclaims...but i am transported to another time, another bed, and another sweaty baby who is not a boy.

i am four, and she is six months old. she is sleeping. i poke her. she stirs. i poke her again. our mom wearily tells me to stop bothering her. "my sister," i murmur, and give her a serious poke. veena, you are such a fat, pudge-alicious kid, your stomach begs for pillsburys. your eyes fly open, and as they commonly do, they cross for a moment before you focus properly and see me. your lips curl up, and you smile your liquid fuschia smile as your damp hair frames your face in steamy curls. i notice this, that every time you sleep, you blush and get so hot, and your head gets all sweaty. years later, you will come home from high school at Rio, and you will be exhausted from being one of the most popular girls at school, you will be drained after running meetings and playing tennis, and you will pass out on the family room floor, in front of the TV. cheeks still fat and flushed, i kneel down and peer over your shoulder at your peachy face. your hair no longer curls, but when i touch my index finger to your cheek it still burns. "stop bothering your sister", our mom will admonish. and i will get up, and feel foolish. i once took a picture of you sleeping, on the floor like that, face serene, in perfect repose. you are 16, and forever frozen in your dream. the picture is tucked in to my mirror, on my dresser upstairs.

this memory is almost more than i can stand, and i suddenly love my godson with an intensity that fills every crack in my tattered, worn out old heart. when i watch this baby sleep, my life, my worries recede completely. i don't dwell on the horror of the current administration, i don't worry about whether or not i should go to law school, i don't pine for world peace. when i watch this baby sleep, the world quiets to a blissful stillness and there is nothing but love, everywhere, touching everything. it doesn't matter that my life has sucked, or that someone broke my heart last year. in fact, as i notice how old and tired my tanned summer hand looks on your delicate chest, the epiphany washes over me, that he, before he broke my heart, he was a baby just like this. that his mother looked at him with even more tenderness. that his hair also curled perfectly, his lips were also gentle curves of bliss, that his feet kicked just as powerfully, because indeed, he grew up to be quite a soccer player.

i gently remove my hand and trace a line from your heart to your "foot", which moves slightly because of my embrace. did she hold his foot like this, and marvel at his toenails, no bigger than glitter...did she know that those feet would grow, and flatten and wear the wrong shoes to play basketball in at basketball city. that they would run through central park, propel him across a tennis court, walk him to his office in Rock Plaza and then bring him back home to me. how could she have known, as she grasped his perfect little ankle, that it would later have tendonitis and that in another twenty-seven years, his then girlfriend would lovingly try to rub the pain away. suddenly i understand why mothers hate their son's partners. i don't want to lose my angel baby to another girl either...what if she doesn't love him enough? what if she casts a spell, what if she hurts him? the epiphany grows and fills my thoughts. i mentally forgive every mom who gave me dirty looks for dating their son. i understand, i nod. i get it.

my pudgesicle tries to kick again, away from the ankle bracelet of my right thumb and forefinger, and my thoughts float back to soccer. yes, you will play philip daniel, you and this "foot". you will play, and i will be there and my heart will crack from all the joy of watching this foot rocket a soccer ball past a goalie's grasping fingers.

i lean over, and kiss the sole of your foot, and with that brush of my lips, my own soul drops the painful shackles of regret over last year, over love stolen, over missed opportunities. we are all someone's baby. i must remember this lesson you have so graciously taught me, little buddha. someone gazed at him, in Connecticut twenty-seven years ago with the same liquid brown eyes i behold you with right now. the parallel is so powerful that i tremble from my realisation. she loved him the way i love you. he was perfection once too...

may you always have peace, and happiness and goodness. may your life be a thousand times better than mine. but i know deep down, that you will know your own pain, and your own regret. and as i kiss your cheek a final time, and let go of my own pain, i start a karmic circle that will guarantee forgiveness for you someday, for you will surely break hearts. i inhale the heavenly perfume of your curls, the way someone else did twenty seven years ago with another perfect little boy, and i want to cry tears of gratitude, for loving you has granted my soul true freedom.

i love you always,

Anna

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this is so hard for me to type, but it is also so necessary.

it has come to this; i shall take a little break from this space, because i need one. i just don't write like that anymore. that's the plain truth, and the truth saddens me in a quiet, powerful way that gnaws at my heart. my heart has already suffered for plenty of other now-public reasons recently. i think that with time, my voice will be strong and clear again (as will the muscle i just mentioned twice).

i appreciate your forgiveness for my absence.

i will still post on Sepia Mutiny regularly (i.e. several times a week), because it's never personal there, and so it never hurts. i will update diary to a lesser extent, because that does sometimes hurt, and we're giving the middle of my chest a rest, aren't we?

do take care of yourselves, i'll miss you and this sacred space terribly.

see you soon...

my hero

not because of what he offered: because of how aware he is, as he lives his wonderful life. awesome people exist in san francisco, and if you don't know, now you know. if i had it "all", i.e. the convertible and the crib in the city, i'd be just like this man.

i went to bed feeling uncertain, i woke up feeling understood and loved, apres...this.

hey anna,

i found your site a little bit ago and actually went so far as to *gasp* post something under the name Harry Sandborne. if you haven't seen the movie Something's Gotta Give...do...and be ready to laugh your @$$ off.

to break up the monotony of the day-to-day drudgery of work, and definitely not from the abundance of it, but more the lack thereof, i drop by your site from time to time.

"Looks like you've been missing a lot of work, Peter".
"Well, I wouldn't say I've been 'missing' it, Bob."
- Office Space

i'm not going to ramble on about how your postings and you are witty/charming/open/etc i know you get that a lot. why not - you are.

what got me today was that i followed a link to anna.something-typepad and saw that you were out of work. are you still out of work? what do you do and is there anything i can do to help...lemme know if you need a hookup. more importantly, let me know if you need some cash-o-lah of trivial amounts to keep things going. (*beep beep* - i can hear you mentally backing up the truck and re-reading that last sentence)

and in return i ask for....nothing. seriously. just keep being you and write away.

we're 30ish gen-xers learning about ourselves and finding out that our voice inside of our heads still sounds like (and feels like) we're 25 even though our license says we're 31. some grow inside and others from interactions with others. you do both - and post about it online. that's (well - here comes a lame word) the coolest thing. i wouldn't want, for a second, you to feel like you couldn't continue doing some of the things you like cause of zero dinero.

yes i'm one of the people who selectively give anonymously but hey - it's karma. i grew up a little bit on the down and outs and now have the home, convertible, and work here in the City making more than i ever dreamed. and it's because i gave even when i had very little. now i have more and am happy to give to various, albeit non-orthodox outlets. =P my favorite is jogging up to a homeless person and telling them "excuse me, but you dropped this back there" and slapping a bill into their hands before jogging off. LOL.

again, please let me know. the anonymity will stay this way on both sides. i know that this is a very different email and i have to admit i've never done this either, but something inside just says it's the right thing to do. and (2nd please of the day) even though i know etiquette says to graciously decline, reconsider - everyone else says NO. say YES. be different. live a little. =D

ciao bella.

- hs

if EVER i wanted to grab a martini (or three) with someone, it's this guy. funny, conscious and different. i love it. that's one of the best emails "peter's" received in forever.

every breath i take...

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note: i originally wrote this on august 30.

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You: Alone, and then with friends, at a Saturday night Qawali and ensuing party in SF.

Me: Admirer from afar, "the" sardar, in disbelief that the person's whose blog I'd incidentally discovered and began reading was actually at the same place I was.

My apologies if I was gawking, though you caught me a few times. I was at first trying to figure out if it was really you, and then trying to decide if I should introduce myself, and simply ask if you were doing ok. But as the night continued on, I noticed you laughing and smiling with friends - it seemed as though you were - and I decided to not cross that line. You obviously have a lot of people who look after you, and it's probably best that I remained one of your many anonymous observers and admirers.

Basically, what I wanted to say in this, is that given what you're going through, it was nice to see you enjoying yourself - laughing, smiling and dancing, and for someone who I've never met, I was glad to see it.

Posted by: sardar | August 29, 2004 03:39 PM
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dearest sardar-ji,

if you read these disparate collections of words which comprise my "online empire", you know that i have a weakness for punjabi men. :) you add fuel to that fire, dear sir. i sat down at this very computer last night and tried to write. then, i saw your comment and tears flooded my eyes as my fingers froze, curling uselessly right above this barely yielding keyboard.

i was overwhelmed by your words, and i had to walk away. i had to leave the bloodletting for another day.

YOU: the only "proper sardar" in the whitewashed, nyc-loft of a room, sitting on the middle couch, next to a girl who i assumed was your own...yes, i caught you, once or twice. but you had no idea what i was thinking, what i interpreted those sideways glances to mean. such a strange sensation, looking at you...i wanted to recognise you. i don't lie. there was something about you. somewhere, in a realm that is surreal and not governed by logic, i recognised that you were recognising me...

ME: alone. consummately, pathetically alone. so scared that i was looking around for anyone, even an enemy to recognise, to anchor myself to, to locate myself with...i noticed you immediately, b/c my ottaman was almost across from your couch. i didn't inwardly castigate you for looking at me. after all, i was the freak show. "i bring this upon myself," i thought. "to come to a desi event alone is to ask for scrutiny...gawd, anna...what is WRONG w/you?" i averted my eyes at your gaze, took a deep breath, and told myself that i had a right to be there, in the middle of the empty hardwood floor, the only human there...alone. honestly? going to that club was the most terrifying thing i've done in a long time.

"I noticed you laughing and smiling with friends - it seemed as though you were - and I decided to not cross that line. You obviously have a lot of people who look after you, and it's probably best that I remained one of your many anonymous observers and admirers"

friends. people who "look after me". you were right to have your "doubts" about my social life that night. :) i know what it must have looked like; i threw regret to the man-made wind, churning forth from those precious fans downstairs. on saturday, i just wanted to laugh. and dance. and live. even if i couldn't get a single soul to go to this obscenely fantastic event with me.

friends.

quite the opposite, darling sardar. quite the opposite. my "friends" were found that same night. would you believe that i made eye contact with YOU before any of them? the first "friend" came up to me b/c i was entranced by his skill with the sarod. he was gracious enough to make me so comfortable, everyone assumed that he was someone i had known for a while. as one of the organizers of the event, he was also the consummate host, stopping by throughout the evening to see if i was enjoying myself.

the second "friend" recognised me from my fotolog (!). i was floored when he appraised me for a moment, and then point-blank asked, "are you anna?" he was bemused by my shock at being noticed, until i told him that he was the first person to ever approach me in public in such a way.

i took a deep breath before emptying my mind; "i write or create these sites and i don't expect anyone to really pay attention or care. i don't walk around wondering if i'm going to get recognised-- the possibility for such things leaves me incredulous". he asked about the email debacle and my love life in a forthright, pretense-free way that had me reeling with mixed emotions internally. externally, i stayed calm.

for the very first time, i was experiencing the repercussions of my candor. i knew that i didn't have much right to be astonished at his "familiarity" with my "current events" b/c i wrote about them, but that didn't stop me from experiencing a massive sort of shock. this may inspire some of you to screech, "DUH!" at your monitors, but resist. it looks silly, and besides, i'm sincere when i share my dissonance with you. i never expected any of these things to happen.

he was genuinely surprised that i was there alone, but after a few moments of an almost uncomfortable silence, he seemed to understand that i was trying to survive the drama that has become my life. when i bid him farewell, i saw a kindness in his eyes that i relished like water on a scalding day. i was touched that this complete stranger gave a damn about me.

"i hope it works out, after all" he said, before i walked away. his heartfelt good wishes and obvious concern were what i chose to focus on, and after a while, i forgot how startled i had initially felt when he first asked me about my relationship. the only thing i can compare that moment to is the mild terror one feels when in a public bathroom, and someone succeeds in opening the door while you are in a stall.

the third "friend" was the ultimate sort of random; he liked my diesel jeans. surprise, surprise...he was wearing a pair himself. i had been dancing and letting go of a lot of ickiness when he stopped me to make chit-chat. i learned his name and age before he asked how old i was. "almost 30," i replied, certain that mischief was written all over my face. i love the shock people display when they realise i'm way older than they thought. "NO! i thought you were 23 like me! no way. 30..." he stunned me by grabbing my left hand before announcing, "not married? you're getting a bit old to be single, aren't you?" i looked at him blankly before smiling slightly and excusing myself. i wasn't going to ruin my precious and much-needed good time on such bullshit. i remember being pleased that in my peripheral vision, i could see that his smirk had faded.

anyway.

"friends".

as you now know, not really. maybe two of them will be friends, one day...i'll take all the allies i can get, thank you. i don't know what role any of these people is meant to play in my strange life. i don't know anything anymore. but i'm figuring some of it out, verrrry slowly.
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sardar, i will never be able to convey to you what your sentiments meant to me, at the exact moment when i read them yesterday. you taught me that even when i am at my most despondent, vulnerable, absolutely tormented worst, i am never alone.

it's hard for me to imagine that the man i locked eyes with that night recognised me, thought such kind things about me, and felt a small sort of happiness that i was trying to survive. though that is a difficult concept to chew on, it is a delicious one, and i am grateful for the welcome, unexpected treat.

thank you a thousand times for writing to me, for forcing my breath to catch in my throat, for proving that the infinite universe really does fit in baby krishna's mouth.

fresh from my OTHER GMail account...

(note: the sentence that i've bolded in the email copied below is a quote from a caption i wrote for my fotolog. the email-writer was responding to that caption. thanks for putting up with my anal proclivities, and thanks for putting up with me, period.)

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12:37am (1½ hours ago)

From: -----------@aol.com
To: suitablegirl@googlemail.com

Date: Thu, 2 Sep 2004 03:37:23 EDT
Subject: your blog..

"months ago, pretty princess molly of massachusetts told me that the only way to recover from heartbreak was to close your eyes and dance, as if your future depended on it. it does."

Does this mean youve broken up with your bf? Hundreds of guys who steadfastly read your blogs wanna know!

~ ------

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words almost fail me. :(

yes, but *no*.