When I gazed upon her beauty, I found peace within . The breeze filtered through my clothes, my hair commanded by the wind and still , I was taken my her. I walked by her sandy shores, her waters washed my feet, kissing the rocks as they bounced back and forth as if to tease them. The sun gave her a twinkle and the moon waited impatiently for the night to fall on her. I captured her , that I may take her away with me. She is I, my creative spirit, my symbol of freedom, my dreams, my solace, desire…..she took my breathe away.
I remember my father , the stories he told, the triumphs he rejoiced over , the trials that made his heart grind to a final stop. I remember my fathers eyes, his fury, his fear, his determination .I remember my father.
Unless you have seen my fathers backyard, you could never understand what drives me. I constantly encounter the ignorant who cannot believe how I strive. They could never hinder me for they know not what grows in my fathers backyard. Mosquitoes have sucked my blood and rats have nibbled off my toe nails but still I stand. I remember the will of my father , his voice telling me that I will not be deterred.
An outward expression of inner beauty, that her substance lies in that which is within her, far from what meets the eye. She is a woman of substance.
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I remember tying a scarf on my head and in my dunlop slippers, walking the dirt roads that lead to the Aswani market every Tuesday. The sweet smell of dried craw-fish in the air, hawkers balancing basins of pure water on their tiny heads and calling out “pure water!!!!! pure water!!!!!” to attract their market of customers and traders alike for they were essential to quench our undying thirst as we melted under the mercy of the mid-day sun, clothes sticking to our bodies as we perspired and dirt sticking to our sweat. Crowded markets and noisy streets blocked with traders wares. The un-ending traffic jam from commercial bus drivers who had no regards for traffic laws and yet in the midst of it all , we still manage to strike good bargains on food and fabric and what ever else the rowdy chaotic market had to offer. Even in the madness, I saw beauty; the beauty of people who lived a humble life, striving to make a living, the beauty of unfortunate innocent children playing in the sand with their bare bottoms covered in dust,the beauty of broken english spoken by the less literate, the sweet sound of multiple local languages and dramatic facial expressions that accompanied those who spoke them, the beauty of colorful bright red and orange tomatoes and peppers carefully displayed on beaten table tops by simple people who could never ask for more than to make a good sale at the end of the day.
“Aswani Tomatoes and Peppers” is on sale at Gallery Guichard, 436 E 47th St, Chicago, IL 60653
(773) 791-700 , contact:-
When the waves try to escape from the ocean, the ocean always pulls them back. No matter how far out to the shore they go, they always return home. When love has connected two souls together, they have a bond that’s unbreakable that no matter how far they go, they will always find each other.
“The man with a suitcase” whom I have fallen so deeply in love with. Yesterday he knocked on my door but was welcomed by the echoes that bounced back from my empty nest. He had his suitcase with him and once again he had returned to me, but I was not there. I was lost, lost without him. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. I was choking in my own words that stabbed me like daggers piercing through my fragility. I was wandering into oblivion, like a mad man chasing a void, but I was rescued by the wings of love; an emotion that had tortured me continuously yet rescuing me from my self-destructive self. Love lifted me and took me to my doorsteps. I looked on the floor and saw the tracks of his suitcase; I took a breath and smelt his essence. I melted to a pulp, had I lost him again? I followed the tracks of his suitcase and it lead me to the grounds where I had buried my beating heart in a jar, waiting for the right one to make it his treasure.
My heart in a jar was gone. My treasure all dug up. Had he reclaimed it once more? Had he been lost without it? How did he know where to find it?
So I followed the tracks of his suitcase as they lead me away from the grounds where I had buried my beating heart in a jar. The trail lead me straight back to him. I was shaking, eyes teary, head splitting. I rested my head on his chest, he drew me close and I heard the beating of my heart inside of his. In that moment, I felt whole again. He comforted me, stroked me, wiped away my tears, and whispered sweet words to me. We stood under the moonlight like two lovers who had nowhere to go but to each other. Stars twinkled in the deep blue skies like angels up high singing a praise. I am home again; my home is in his heart, in the heart of ‘the man with a suitcase”. My heart will go on and on.
I fell in love with ‘the man with a suitcase’. Placed my heart in a jar and gave it to him so that he could take it with him where ever he went. Off and on , he came and left like a ‘no where man’. I wondered where he laid his head at night, whose warm body gave him comfort in my absence, on whose couch did he toss and turn?. My heart in a jar, I walked around feeling lost like a mindless zombie. Lost without one who was lost. He was lost to me though I felt lost without him. I tried to function without a heart, my heart in a jar, in his suitcase he took where ever he went. I dreamt of a home, a dog in the yard, the voices of children playing, the cry of a new born baby. My head in the clouds, I was just a dreamer.
But one day….. I awoke. The intensity of the sun tearing through my window blinds almost blinding me as I opened my eyes. I found my heart in a jar by my bedside. It was beating ferociously begging me to take it back. I stared at my jar, I held it in my hands, drew it close to my chest, that I should feel my own heart beat again, even though it wasn’t inside of me. I turned around and the door was open, I saw the tracks of his suitcase on the floor, the air was slightly stained with the smell of his cologne, the front door unlocked, his footprints in the sand, trail fading off with the distance. He had become a memory. I held my beating heart in my hands, I looked up to the morning sun and the chilly wind filtered through my clothes. A new day had come.
I grabbed a shovel and dug a hole in the ground. I buried my beating heart in the sand, that one day it shall be found by the one who will make it his treasure. My heart in the sand.