Sitaram
kickbox
I begin to put down words as they come to mind; words from the inner
dialogue, the script in my heart, which I can see and hear so clearly
but cannot yet capture in print:
train
Amtrak
suicide
psychotherapist
administrator
Often, I feel the desire to write, to create. But I do not equally often
feel inspired. This is a problem. Is this a problem? I play with
the words, rearranging them upon the page. Each sentence is so
important. A word is like a movie projector, casting action scenes
upon the screen of mind.
I want to write at this very moment, as I sip my morning coffee.
I want to write because in distracts me from problems. Shall we call it
a problem which solves problems?
A middle aged woman would come several times a year from India, to
the little Guyanese temple in Brooklyn. Ah, Brooklyn! That Mecca for all faiths; a second Israel. She was a famous story teller. Well, story teller is not the proper word. She had been all her life in the narration and interpretation of the Ramayan, in song and sermon.
Here name was Lata. I once asked the pandit what that name means.
He said it is the word for a beautiful for climbing vine which flowers at
night.
Lata was giving a talk in the mandir one day. She said, "When you
have a thorn lodged under your skin, you can only remove it with
another thing which is sharp, which is like the thorn; a needle." Or, if you were an exile in a forest, with no needle handy, you might use another thorn.
Yes, sometimes we need a problem to solve a problem.
And is there a solution to all problems?
The stranger sitting next to me, on the long train ride to Boston,
smiled and said "sometimes, even suicide is a way of moving on."
I have always tried to strike up interesting conversations with strangers
on long journeys.
(A work in progress, which I hope to be adding to..)
dialogue, the script in my heart, which I can see and hear so clearly
but cannot yet capture in print:
train
Amtrak
suicide
psychotherapist
administrator
Often, I feel the desire to write, to create. But I do not equally often
feel inspired. This is a problem. Is this a problem? I play with
the words, rearranging them upon the page. Each sentence is so
important. A word is like a movie projector, casting action scenes
upon the screen of mind.
I want to write at this very moment, as I sip my morning coffee.
I want to write because in distracts me from problems. Shall we call it
a problem which solves problems?
A middle aged woman would come several times a year from India, to
the little Guyanese temple in Brooklyn. Ah, Brooklyn! That Mecca for all faiths; a second Israel. She was a famous story teller. Well, story teller is not the proper word. She had been all her life in the narration and interpretation of the Ramayan, in song and sermon.
Here name was Lata. I once asked the pandit what that name means.
He said it is the word for a beautiful for climbing vine which flowers at
night.
Lata was giving a talk in the mandir one day. She said, "When you
have a thorn lodged under your skin, you can only remove it with
another thing which is sharp, which is like the thorn; a needle." Or, if you were an exile in a forest, with no needle handy, you might use another thorn.
Yes, sometimes we need a problem to solve a problem.
And is there a solution to all problems?
The stranger sitting next to me, on the long train ride to Boston,
smiled and said "sometimes, even suicide is a way of moving on."
I have always tried to strike up interesting conversations with strangers
on long journeys.
(A work in progress, which I hope to be adding to..)