Strip Poker

When it comes to emotion, people fall in line. One line is haphazard, disorderly, full of seemingly recalcitrant children who giggle behind palms and stick their leg out to make a person trip and fall. This category of emotional people, are out there. Saying it like it is. Speaking their heart out. No pun intended.

And then there is the slightly straight line. If not a straight line at least all angles, no soft curves. This line has an intensity that radiates for miles. But its music is quiet. An opera, a veritable symphony- in sign language. This emotional people feels. But quietly. Cares, but quietly. Wants, but believes in delayed gratification.

Which category feels more. How can that be a question. It is like asking which hurts more, the light of the sun or the light of the moon. Depending on how you are feeling, both cut to the quick.

All of us know both kinds. I know I do. I know a person who leaves you in no doubt that he cares. This is the grand gestures, calls at all hours, songs-that-remind-me-of-you/us kind. And I know a person, who will probably agree with me, when I tell him something emotional. And that will be his contribution, an assent to a statement. And when asked, he might answer, or alternately might ignore the question, till a further convenient time.

And this quiet feeler makes me, the recalcitrant child, feel like I am too out there. Makes me wish for discretion, not for the first time in my life, but more than I have normally wished it.

But I must say, while the first category believes in, to use a metaphor, a quick strip and then getting under the covers, the second group..oh they are masters at the slow strip tease. Revealing emotion like removing each garment bit by bit. A glove here, the hat there. Strip poker, with a poker face. And leaving you wondering.Overwhelmed.Breathless.

I cannot choose, I like both kinds.

No, I do have a kind I prefer.

But that’s another story.

Intimacy

Say it. Aloud.
In-ti-macy.

It is a long drawn sigh, sibilant, echoing. Not the kind that you can shout out, rather one that cannot even be said, just whispered. Or felt.

What is intimacy. Not necessarily the kind that is created between sheets, behind closed doors. Sex need not be intimate. Though pillow talk can be.

Intimacy is a world of two, in the midst of a whole slew of people. It is looking up, seeking a particular pair of eyes, only to find that they are already looking at you. And have been for a while.

It is a voice on the phone line. And a conversation that gets softer and softer as it continues. It is not the talk,but the tone.

It is your name being said.

It is being stretched out, next to someone, reading.

Intimacy is a drive in the rain that ends too soon when it should have lasted longer. A lifetime. Atleast a night.
It is burying your nose in cushions touched and finding fragrance.
Intimacy is a voice.

It is a fleeting touch on the hand, a touch that caresses a strand of hair. It holds out a promise that more will follow. But maybe, that is your imagination.

Intimacy is watching a movie in translation. Listening to a voice in the slight darkness telling you about a scene, a song, a lyric, a line.

Intimacy is sensing, that under the surface is all this that will perhaps never be acknowledged. That it exists, is intimacy.

It is sensing someone’s presence next to you. Shoulders touching, even arms. It is closing your eyes and soaking it all in.

If you have this kind of intimacy, hold on to it.

And hopefully, the person too.

A new Move

vodkawaltz will carry my new kind of prose, while a new blog www.whiskyvice.blogspot.com, will carry my old blog where i will continue to write about issues and things like that.
whiskyvice is one of those things i wish i had come up with myself, sadly that is not the case. For the title and generously allowing me to use it for my blog,Thank you aditya.

Saudade

What is it about an emotional experience that makes people stumble, baulk, bolt?
Is it because unlike physical pain, there is no emollient, no quick fix, no universal cure-all?
Is it because the only way to get over emotional pain is to go through it?
No, you’re wrong. Alcohol does not help. No, neither does drugs or sex or any of the things running through your mind right now. You have to go through it and that’s all there is to it.
And it scares people so much that they would rather lead a half life or claim to not feel anything than to actually go through the trauma of it all.
Or claim that they are too simple to be affected by these things. That’s sad and if it were true, well, that’s sadder still.
It is like looking at a puppy and not holding it in your arms or admiring a sunset with your eyes closed. Or the rain with your eyes open.
Life is about these moments. These intense, how ever long they last moments. How could you even want to go through life not knowing? Not knowing what might have been had you only been brave enough to say. Something.
Or had been the first to say what was on your mind, out in the open, but not acknowledged.
That kind of person, the wearer of the heart on the sleeve, won’t have an easy life. Hell, no. especially when compared to the run from this, I am too cool to feel anything, pretending people. And yes, sadly, the wearer of the heart on the sleeve will get hurt, more than once. But bewildered, will err again. And again.
But this person lives, a sharp clear life. Where every snowflake is felt. Where every blade of grass and every sharp edged paper, cuts. Where every stroke of the typewriter key, reverberates. Where every single movie is translated.
To get kicked down and then dust yourself off and rise.
To dive in, from the deep side, almost drown, surface and run for the cliffs again.
Now, that’s courage.
And I am all for it.

State of Mind

Loneliness clutches the throat cutting off air. Like being in a dusty room and trying to talk. Or being underwater and trying to breathe. The music isn’t helping. It makes you melancholic, needy. Wanting attention. And painfully aware that it will be a while till you receive it. If at all. And not on your terms. Mostly never.
To have someone. To call and say, you must listen to this song/ this artist/ this person narrating her poetry. To know that this person will know exactly why you like/love/loathe, whom you recommend. To have someone to say, do you want to come over for a meal? Or to not even ask, but to open the door and find a person you wanted to see, standing there, smiling a quiet smile.
To have someone who isn’t a pit stop. Or does not see you as one. Who is not passing through, who stays back, for you. Because that’s the only thing to do. And it feels right. You don’t feel guilty for the choice made. You don’t feel a sense of worry, on how you will cope when this ends. And you have to wake up.
To have a group of women sitting around, drinking tea/coffee/water/vodka/whiskey/whatever, talking about everything inconsequential and nothing inconsequential. To feel a sense of belonging to a sorority. To something like a sisterhood.
To have a dog who gives you love in return for love, loyalty in return for loyalty, a wide smile for the squeaky toy you offer as an act of devotion, who matches every running step of yours with a boundless sense of enthusiasm and a nose for every puddle on the road.
To have a person who puts you first, once in a way. Who responds to every text, every question, every doubt with a...response. Any response. But not an ‘okay’.
To have someone to walk in the rain with, to drink a cup of coffee with, to share a bar of chocolate or a drink with. To sit with, in total silence and watch the colours of the sky change.
To pick up the phone and have the person on the other end know. Just know, that you need someone. And to find that shoulder, that arm around you, that hand in yours, that embrace.
If this is your loneliness, then welcome to the club. There’s always room for one more.