Silver Lines and Strings

The idea of wringing out what’s inside is compelling. The raw silk darkness of this night sinks on its elbows and straps down on my ankles comfortingly. I want to tell you the whole story but patterned squares of light from the west window are still busy adjusting its tiny shoulders across the room and I feel distracted.

I was born from the glassy coldness of winter and the purple defiance of twilight falling on the edgeless waters of Time. I was born when the Gods were sleeping or occupied with the noise of sparrows. I knew no laughter; I knew no anguish; I knew no desire to touch or be touched. I was just clay, dyed in the color of the universe. I was born when love killed my forgetful flesh and memories sat on a weightless silence, weaving all that was left unsaid.

When I was little, I would look at the sky, and run its blue-ness into my heart. I would wonder how and why the world was born and walk alone among crowds, on clouds.

Colors intrigued me always. So much, that I saw everything imbued with a certain color. The color in lakes and leaves, in music and sleep…the color in stillness and freedom, in tears and smiles! I realized sooner than later that life was all color. It is yet a blur, when I turned woman, for I remained girl in so many ways. In that brief invisible interstice between being a girl and a woman I fell in love with the transparencies of youth. I could watch myself as no one else ever did, with eyes that would say “sesame” and the world would open with its endless pathways running on and forming arches between the Earth and the Sky.

In love……..I had some pictures in the air; some pictures in the dark; some on yellow leaves and some on the grass. Over and over again, these pictures tried speaking to me: if only I could understand the music of everything then…till at last on a moon-less night he tugged the sleeves of the wind and my heart, and I believed. And then in a moment it was all over. Or so I thought.

I felt the rage. Felt the pain. Felt it all deep inside…but now all I feel is the breaking of watery gossamers. I hear the dream words I had almost renounced when it was over. I feel a sense of letting go-breathing in deeply I smell the rain…impatient, pulsing, appeasing.

My wish-pixies are alive again. They tell me not to reveal their secrets…but there is nothing to hide anymore…my heart is flushed and free. Silver Lines and Strings is a window flung open-letting in air, light, imagination into my inner world that might have otherwise been frozen in silence.






Ivaana’s Muse

I have your soul: I fanned it with different wings in this journey alone.

As the years go by, it no longer hurts to say; being drawn to you, is how I am driven.

The pages of the diary, yellowed and frayed at the edges, prevent my heart, from being mine alone, and I write.

I am telling a story: on black keys and white keys. Tiny fires from the eyes of fireflies light up the dark room in which I am alive. Hanging on the V chord and setting up the cadence- I feel the chorus building inside me with a phosphoric blue intensity. There’s always been a song inside me, written upon the memoirs of the diaphanous wind…but when you nurtured the syllable seeds of all my dreams and desires and let me go, I became who I was meant to be.

I have looked for and found metaphors in landscape and snowflakes, October city lights and the sidewalk and listened to the trickle of light, till I became liquid. There is a sense of rootlessness in the unrehearsed words which darken and disappear as I write.

November memories return to ruffle summer leaves in this hot surreal afternoon: slipping, sliding into a visible silence.

The melted sun tastes good on my skin. I have a few moments of forever in my palm. I am born to fly and die in the truth of nothingness. Let me be. The sun is a great thief…it pockets my laughter, never to give it back, till I return here again. I keep vanishing in this pale blue distance scratching the fat humps of these lazy clouds to leave my signature behind. The wind is my music. My bones cry with unworded songs. Here a slow glide, there a hush, the birds are trying to hide between the half-steps of the winds’ invisible chords. Some of the clouds are herding together like wounded cattle now and I am beating my wings against time in celebration of the woman I am. This sky is like a window minus sill, panes or structured panes. It’s an aperture that sweeps me off my feet.

One season just once, like an airbrushed Lydian b7, breathing in, and breathing out: forever.