Monday, March 14, 2011

for Rhapsody: Story of a Flood

N's idea. He wanted to build a story of a flood around some of Vasudev's copper reliefs. I was thinking of them as land and sea already and also eager to write a story. This is what emerged.

Story of a Flood

I woke up early in the morning and it was raining. Mother said I didn't have to go to school because there was water in the streets. The rain was falling everywhere and all our roads were hidden, shrouded, sunk. Nothing moved except the water falling in fat drops, submerging the city, drowning our dogs.

And still, it wasn't enough. For me. I was jealous of those people in the villages, a flood of their bodies rafting on debris, afloat on their boats. Their boats! What an adventure.

I woke up early in the morning and there was only the sea. The furrows and the farmlands, train tracks, turnpikes and traffic systems - all gone. The house was afloat but empty. The clothesline swelled with sheets and I set sailing down the street.

I had a feeling there were others out there. I heard their voices in the wind, I heard whispers of family and friends and I followed. Across a continent I flowed with the flood, seeing shadows underwater and the faces of the future.

Soon the whispers grew stronger. They tugged at my sails, shook the hand that held the rudder, spoke vainly to the water in an effort to churn it, turn it, to alter my course with a deluge of directions. But the house stood still.

There were no storms. There was no sun. When the water crept in under the door, I knew I didn't have long. I sat on the roof and waited.

Everything was all gone. Uncertain, alone, afraid, empty, I waited. What an adventure.

And then there birds drawing circles in the sky. They were swooping and diving and talking incessantly and laughing and laughing. I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming as the water touched my ankles. I must be dreaming with my arms extended my head afloat. A bird on my head. A voice in my ear. The breath in my body. My body in my bed.

I woke up early in the morning. I woke up. At least, I woke up.

for Rhapsody: on change

More writing inspired by the work of Vasudev. K told us a story about moving to another country and suddenly noticing change in herself and her surroundings many years later, triggered by a letter from an old friend. This one was written as homework for the workshop.

on Change

You look different.
You're exactly the same.
Something's happened to you.
Some of the things we say to each other after time apart.

When I'm close to you, you are much bigger. We are glued together. We sit on each other's shoulders. There is no room between us. There is no room.

So I wedge things between us to get a better view: jungles, buildings, distance, our differences. You do too.

I see you whole now, but I see little of you. There is so much more to see.

Now the land is strange between us. Now the sun above us is changed. The world only turns in one direction.

We cannot meet through the throng. We will have to find another way to each other. I guess we will have to walk all the way around, again.