#floatingnomad

[sarahvissersphotography]

More cool shots from Ueno park the other day. #tokyo #japan #ueno #goldenhour #photography #streetphotography #artinthepark #floatingnomad #uenoyes #cardboardart #kidart #autumnvibes (at Ueno Park) https://www.instagram.com/p/B4uqF_LHAUe/?igshid=11diwrdjb9n31

[floatingnomad]

dreams like cotton candy ballooning into puffs in the darkness with hopes, fears and desires

pastels clouds of pinks, purples, blues their details soaking - slowly - out faltering into a sweet sticky mess at noon

[balifornian]

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[floatingnomad]

you’ve molded me into a softness (suddenly my mouth endangers my heart)

coal embers stirring in my chest (you exhale quietly)

i woke up one day at the bottom of this river my heart lumped at the throat drowning,                reaching out in the darkness                the words flooding my chest                air unable to escape the lips

[floatingnomad]

Hollow compound of my mind roving quietly as if memories were biometric locked the imprint unseen, forgotten

Insides painted with a numbing balm and I am present, I am here, alive no longer remembering and hurting no longer begging hands unfolding with laugh lines

Somewhere I am blooming and forgetting Somewhere I am soft, yielding like dough rising with my eyes ahead Somewhere there is rain and laughter and crinkled black eyes

- floatingnomad

[floatingnomad]

Where Are You From?

Hiding beneath: layers of practiced voice intonations to an almost perfect accent, (except the tragic blending of my ‘v’s and ‘w’s my colonial ears have not yet found their distinction) And I am expected to break skin, self-dissect the organs of my heredity, to camouflage my very existence.

There is a soft voice that lingers, kneading words into my head. You Do Not Belong Here. It reeks of tired laughter, and reddened cheeks. I see it wrestle in the eyes of strangers, and friends. I hear the distant mocking in the country of my birth. And even I have begun to believe it.

I’ve never called one place Home. I taste like the streets of a dozen cities, I smell like the wind that turns their corners. There is a constant longing, {an indescribable string-tug, strumming lullabies into distant memories travelling from heart-center to mind-circuit} to leave.

I am holding a passport in my hand – a trap – within rigid blue squares. The pages are worn, stamped letters indicating passed time, flowing time, and inked deadlines. Here the tangible reins fluid thoughts, US of A visa, Indian passport, Permanent Residency of Other Locations, irregular existence (more stamped ink) all staring pointedly, morphing into giant looped question marks.

And the doubt balloons into a string: I Belong Nowhere. I exist in the blurring lines between continents and countries.

[floatingnomad]

I still haven’t unpacked my luggage. Clothes, on clothes, with a worn mug pressed between. Socks and brushes, passports, boarding passes, (train, bus, air) tickets, notes and scraps of home(s).

your voice lingers at my front door

I still haven’t unpacked your voice my clothes neatly folded into a suitcase shut (shh-quiet now)

I am always ready to leave a place unpacked (it is never enough when I arrive) neatly folded, voice shut broken cultural semantics (lingering eyes, cleared throat)

[floatingnomad]

You're holding another ticket, this time alone. How is this comforting? It is. You only ever feel this way, here, now. The momentary relief of being solitary, your body and mind running through familiar motions. Suitcase strapped onto a belt, swiftly disappearing around a bend. Then, walking through security, secretly timing yourself to see how quickly you can pass through without trouble. Unbuckle boots, empty pockets. The scanner is another doorway to the past. You slip through. 

You're at the gate, waiting patiently now. This is the best part. The wait. Watching planes rise to the skies. The fear lingers on them, a familiar stench. Their inhabitants clutching sidearms, whispering prayers under their breaths: "Jai mata di. Jai mata di." Just like mumma. Her eyes bare into mine, age five, dazed. "Cummon. Beta. Jai bolo. Jai mata di. Humari raksha karna."

I comply. Watching the city dissolve into shapes and lights, its inhabitants turned miniature. They are minute, whirring back and forth like ants.

You buckle the silver and it clinks, fears tucked away into a dark corner of your mind. Now, instead, you think about rollercoaster rides: the dip in your stomach, the breeze alive in your hair, and warm laughter. On the plane you let yourself falter at the memory of your first loss, it is the shakiest memory. The second one is felt strongly somewhere in your chest, kneading its reminder into your mind. You let this linger until the present interrupts in the form of white wine and dinner.

[floatingnomad]

her hair is harsh, irregular curls covered by a veil her mumma's eyes trained on her movements her eyes devoted to a sly lover, at her palm

mumma placing a round plate with chawal, kali daal, alu ki sabji on the desk delicate placement, careful, no clink delicate tug against their fragile thread waiting - should I say something, or -

waiting - silence - waiting she rolls the roti between her fingers, coaxing daal-sabji into its hollow biting, white teeth emerging between lips, capturing food

silence - waiting - straining a thread -     it was winter, and the phone rang     another man, another God     lips bursting with bricks     a war of high volume, deepened grated pitch     growl against growl     a pitter-patter of feet leaving the front porch     a young girl, and a woman

two women sitting in the living room two half-filled chai cups, with lip stains, resting cup-to-cup on clear glass four eyes red, streaming with I love yous I missed yous it happened too quick two women embracing on a cream sofa

unfolded roses their thorns discarded in the snow

[floatingnomad]

underneath the covers there is a bed of regrets that wilts there are deep welts on this mattress from the shape of my body (too many days I have spent sinking) - floatingnomad

[floatingnomad]

Her hair overflows, cupping her shoulder in half-rings. She gazes into the mirror for a moment. Drawing the red bindi between her index and thumb, closer, she presses it firmly between two full brows. Her lips are marooned, her eyes dark lined with kohl. It is the end of an ancient routine whose language she had forgotten. Forgotten over years of silent promises, a fire was igniting again.

(inspired by the movie 'fire' by Deepa Mehta), floatingnomad

[floatingnomad]

it is the way in which your eyes have opened (how the rays of sun glimpse the corners) like fluttering wings of a firefly ringing to the pouring rain like turning over a page uncovering its fold with haste to reach the end of a sentence that woke you from a warm bed

waking up with a desire for familiar words, floating nomad

[floatingnomad]

Dulhan

a woman reclined jet black hair curled below an earlobe

the silent weight of morose curtains, her palms cupped marooning peacocks

laal chudiyan adorned at her wrists glass pieces littered

a woman resigned jet black hair ringlets dressing the upturned cup of her shoulder

laal chunariya unravelled next to the glass pieces littered

detached rose petals growing on the bed where littered the glass pieces lay

the white chaadar with rose petals (a detached woman lay) printed arms on a pillow a woman littered like red glass pieces lay

faint inflamed skin parting ash curls she reclined on a cloud of jet black hair not awaiting his return

- by floatingnomad

[floatingnomad]

Fear, the hollow well of unspoken truths that spill, overflowing on silent windy mornings frost resting in hollow sweaters wool unravelling with thoughts. Hours, orchids blooming in the quiet Days of festering, rotting flowers their arms, shoulders hunched bunched together, drooping eyelids the petals pressing together in a final prayer colour weeping, leaving grey skin wrinkled bits waiting for a lengthy sleep.

the scent of dying orchids, floatingnomad

[floatingnomad]

hover, hover softly little hands this sea is broken-open-sealed-shut with each and every breath it takes.

My heart stutters as the canoe tilts again. Mumma take my hand! She barely hears my voice.

Words floating overhead barely touching, swift columns of air separating. She is a pinprick on the shore.

I swing my paddle moving farther out, further away. The sun is melting, the sky is orange, losing its fire. Fireflies are crouching beneath finger-like leaves their bright dance flashing across my eyes.

The silence here is supposed to wake me, that’s what I was told. The woods are here to balm the resurrected cold within me. I cannot help but feel more alone, my silence is only beautiful in theory.

[floatingnomad]

“skype me at 5pm, your time not mine”

distance is a bursting curse we have both known since we were fifteen

she takes a breath then hugs me, tightly. breath winding its way out of me

we both know the journey that birds make each winter they have no bags to carry they always return

we have only words between us, on paper, email we never know, when or where to return

what is home? we mail each other stories in the hope of unraveling where is home? sometimes I find it perched on the cursive O’s of her handwriting in her faint mannerisms etched in memory’s ink

like crows we caw into the night our voices echoing us, traveling through limp wires, echoing each other

I wonder if the other birds can hear us do they understand?

(who else could know this broken language)

Each time I see you time catches the wind but never long enough to unpack belongings, sorrows, even truth

each time it becomes harder (to let go of your coat) for the jet-lag of missing you to wear off (it never does)

we find our feet planted in the gardens of metal airbuses. airports singed with the stench of loss

in this accumulation of departures our goodbye never ends

- by floatingnomad