Day 34: a writer’s liquid sky


 

For Neil Gaiman, Anne Rice, Fyodor Dostoevsky, Emily Bronte, Sidney Sheldon, Milan Kundera, Jane Austen and Jessica Zafra.

 

2:15 AM

raining Dubai

I DID NOT PLAN TO WRITE tonight because I should be up and about at 6 AM for Abu Dhabi today.  I was in bed at 11 PM, aspiring an early evening, in my favorite pajamas and cooing to the sound of the city and its acqueous spirit.  It has been raining for days now and I am beginning to be weary of it.  I have had rain in my life that would have spawned a precipitation of my own makings.  Today, specifically, with mud in my shoes and my hooded sweater imbued with rainwater as I walked to and fro the metro, I have enough reason to curse the liquid sky for not disclosing its much needed requiem.  But did I sleep?  Obviously not.

It is me and my greedy mien to capture every moment in a less opportune time.  If that even made sense.  It can be the addendum to prolong life in a sense, when senses fail to fill in the mental gaps.  And tonight, in particular, it feels like I will miss out on something big if I dragged my exhausted self to sleep when in reality, I am too spaced out to plug off.  Such predisposition on my writing.  On wondering.  Of seeing, feeling, capturing, expressing, experimenting and indulging in things that catches my omnivorous self-possessed pneuma.

I am playing Tori Amos’ Midwinter Graces, the CD of the season, and it brewed well with the weather and my sense of rapid coveting that its bells,  harps and harpsichord seemed to be only a few inches away from me.  It appeared as a downpour of Christmas blues intermixed with my parallel universe orbiting out there.  Somewhere.  In a place where I am satisfied and satiated by sun kisses, walking in flip flops and like Edie Brickell, shooting rubberbands at the stars.

There are no stars tonight.  I walked to my balcony and stared hard at the dark granite firmament.  It did not speak.  It just stood there, high and mighty, and looked back at me.

I am one of the humankind, dear star of wonder, can you come and peep through these dark dark clouds?  Give me some meaning and not an Emirates aircraft slashing every 5 minutes across your stubborn grayness.  I want some meaning.  I need to see God tonight.  He seems to be busy fornicating with his digital orchestra, Joy to the World, that he missed his shift tonight.

The same time last year, I wrote a letter to my friend Joon and specifically rocketed with the same moot point:  restlessness, invisiblity and bilocation.  The same close encounter that I am in tonight.

I wrote :  I am so sick of this city that I am beginning to see myself in India again. Doing what I really want to do: volunteer for AIDS victims and reincarnating Mother Teresa through me, although, I will never wear a habit, please. I want to WASTE one year of my very inexorable life and deal with something that would really make me happy: be with the downtrodden and recreate magic with them. I don’t know but this thought always haunts me . . . to be in India and do what I have to do. I don’t know where to start but I know I must have a year in India and just do it.  Help me. I want to become a missionary, volunteer, whatever you may call it.  I am beginning to feel nauseated with ME being here. I clearly don’t belong here. I belong somewhere else. In a different person with a different job. Perhaps even with a different home base.  Destination: India.

Like an echo, I would have written Joon the exact same billet doux heightened only by iambic syntax and weather references.  I don’t know.  Under the spell of the tuneful jazz works that the rain have anchored on my deliquesced day, I preferred getting out of bed to wallow on its shapeless anatomy.  I have chosen sleeplessness over the rules of the body.

What does the soul need to restrict it from journeying even to the most cryptic locations of the mind?  Does it need physical gladness to invert what the spirit needs?  Does it have to be fireworks and Janet Jackson’s Escapade video to reward an ill-starred mind that worked mindlessly for 10 hours and will be working the same number of hours the next day?  Did it take me to walk to my laptop and write woefully about the desideratum of the soul, which, in no particular order, would end up being just another write up anyway?

I checked my clock:  3:48 AM.

And then it hit me.

Being a writer in a time of clear discontent, I need to defuse myself from my selfish picket fences and jump to life as a human being.  With my winged feet planted on its disheveled grounds.  Who knows where it take me?  Do what normal people do like get addicted to telenovelas?  Or surge on and move to life’s upbeat prerequisites like fashion and fashionista friends? Hopefully to wise up a bit.  To let loose for a day and shower my world with reality.  To dance and nonetheless, create and recreate life’s many borders and turn them into catalysts of beauty.

As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, “There was never a good biography of a good writer. There couldn’t be. He is too many people if he’s any good.” He would have been more concrete if he mentioned as well that writers have problems with identity and taking care of themselves.  That they have been branded as pathological liars (oh, but we are only because we magnify banal junctures and turn them into events), schemers (oh, but we are only because we have to be there and make your life a little more interesting) and probers (oh, but we are only because we have been chastised with nothing more than monotony and depression).  Come to think about it, what are we here for anyway?  At times, it is all vanity.  But most of the time, it is by sheer inspiration that we come to you.  To make you laugh, make you cry, make you crave for something that you can never have, make you realize that your life is still worth living for and to make you want to live your life a little bit more.

I am a writer.

But I am also me.  And a few others eclipsed inside my gray matter.

At your own risk.

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