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i want to buy ev. ry. thing. sold at this site (so whimsical!)



and this site (so clever!)



speaking of donkettes, i fell in love with this one in leh. we had a nice heart to heart. then he went back to the herd and i couldn't recognize him later. story of my life.

when i flunk fiction at university, i'll show them this poem

A Poet Recalls Fiction - Norm Sacuta

I have trouble with friends who want to know what happened.
And no, I'm not missing the forest for the trees -
the genus, size and shape,
even when the author cares enough,
will escape me later, become a forgotten shadow
at the edge of the moors.

I am the worst witness of another witness,
read pages and pages without memory
of a character's features.
My rhythmic eyes remember little,
move away from that tape by the door
where I should measure the criminal's height.
What difference does that make?
He robbed me, I might tell the officer.
Isn't that enough?

What's a character? It's every fear of every name
ever introduced to at parties,
crammed into The Tenant of Windfell Hall.
Thank god for Anna Karenina and Jane Eyre.
The title and name the same.

Let me tell you about Jane Eyre:

there's lightning that cleaves a tree directly in two
on the night she decides to marry. That man. The dark one
who talks roughly and has dark eyes so dark his first born
reflects back out of them. That's Jane Eyre.
That's all.

Don't ask me for more. I don't know
once the book is down. But open it again:
I know that point in the forest -
breadcrumbs lead home in all directions. There is no place
lost quite like it. I read pages and pages, enthralled,
then forget my way as the moon sets.

And isn't it glorious to know every word will rush at me,
like that mad woman from the attic,
when I read again tomorrow night.

on reading too much "i eat poetry"

let me explain to you
what this has been
the night i had to use the toilet seven times
before i could fall asleep
or the dreams i’ve had
of picking food out of your teeth with my fingernails
these are my dreams.
nothing has been orange since
though plenty has been yellow
do you see how this has been?
horses, pails, grass just cut
dropping like axes in right angles
it has been
watching my ipod die with my life’s worth of music
and “the feeling” coming over
once every six minutes
or so
or imagine, if you can, typing
very, very fast
gibberish
line upon line, hour upon hour
hair madly falling, a mad diligence
strange colored tears swimming out of the boundaries of your face
and in the background, bagpipes
unrehearsed, a band performs
along with it, nonsense poetry readers
road rollers
and heat rising in wet, swishy waves.
pick a point on your forehead
a single spot
and drill a hole with someone else’s eyes
into the one secret you’re hoping to keep
do you see now
how this has been?
fellow dancer, you do not know
we are still dancing with each other
today, tomorrow, unnecessarily
i gave myself a hearty stomach ache
i have eaten a big breakfast
and now i eat poetry

(eat poetry at http://community.livejournal.com/greatpoets/)

the water tastes different here, doesn't quite quench my thirst

there is a particular kind of weary
reserved for the traveler
who has not felt a familiar bed under his body
nor arm around it
for too long;
who has adapted to the water that tastes
more foreign with each mile
and the many colored dusts that line his throat
are his mementos
the things that change his voice
when he speaks of his extremes:
home
and motion;
there is a particular kind of weary
that is not weary at all
but a celebration, a dash, a victory
that is the traveler's wealth
that is the traveler's death

find your 90 degrees N. if just for a few seconds.

echoes i heard in ladakh

the morning after i was left in ladakh to my own defences
i finally decided to buy a copy of the little prince
it's in every book store in leh, the official book of the leh trip, i joked,
but when i read it for the first time as an adult (last read at age 9 when i thought it was just another amusing fairy tale), i understood why it is the perfect book for ladakh
especially when i came across...

"...the little prince climbed a high mountain. the only mountains he had ever known were the three volcanoes, which came up to his knees. and he used the extinct volcano as a foot-stool. 'from a mountain as high as this one,' he said to himself, 'i shall be able to see the whole planet at one glance, and all the people...'

but he saw nothing save peaks of rocks that were sharpened like needles.

'good morning,' he said courteously.

'good morning--good morning-- good morning,' answered the echo.

'who are you?' said the little prince.

'who are you--who are you--who are you,' answered the echo.

'be my friends, i am all alone,' he said.

'i am all alone--all alone--all alone,' answered the echo."

the tibetan culture believes in shunya as the sum of all totals. if the little prince had known this, he'd know that the question 'who are you?' should never be asked in the mountains. and 'i am all alone' will only echo back at you from a hundred surfaces, each a different color and shape. welcome to ladakh, prince. where what is past gets left behind on its very own because you cannot carry much extra weight here. and what is to come is always hiding behind the endless peaks. the mountains will say to you what you say to them, so take care what you say to them.

excuse me while it all tumbles out in random order. it was just that kind of trip.

back from ladakh

so many places
so many faces

i was devout in amritser


chilling in manali


freezing between jispa and sarchu


sick at pang


enchanted in leh


and sad to come back

(thanks scratchpost for the pho-tos.)