Tumble in space by quilt artist, Manju Narain,
Chicago, Illinois, USA
Life
--- Anita Nahal
My muse is life. Life is my muse. See all the muses of all the
people in all the world, in a circle ruminating, crazy maybe. Like a boomerang
off its tailored path, or a drone revolving like a switchless fan, or me
pirouetting like Sleeping Beauty in her sleep. Yes, in her
sleep, not mine. In mine, sleeping and waking are not tough...yet. It ain’t
like there ain’t no water…yet. It ain’t like there ain’t no roti...yet.
It ain’t like Marie Antoinette’s back from the guillotine, standing in space,
shouting hoarse, “Let them eat cake.” Yet, the world’s muse is
its lost luster. One that appears depleted like phallic creatures in
Tanguy’s The Dark Garden. Or the hens cackling unseen. I just let
gratitude fill to the brim as prayers leave my lips repeatedly. Prayers
mouthing everyday overlooked words. “Good night. Good morning. Hello!
How are you Thank you! I am sorry.” Other muses step out of Maslow’s
triangle and sprint to my side. Water, food, home, and my son who is my home. A
romantic love too can be a muse. See, having a muse is not tough. Being one is.
Whose muse, am I? What muse-ship do I fill? Ask the connoisseurs of art, or
cravers of sunken treasures. Again, and again at the mercy of screams in deep
waters. Or sharks. At the center lies the bank’s vault. Those that thieves
attempt penetrating. Thieves of life. Life that can be a muse. Of sanity.
Sanity is life. And life is sanity. Just a simple khichdi I
remember from my mama’s recipes, cooked in slow open pot, sprinkled on top with
lightly sautéed in ghee fresh ginger bits, just before
serving. My muse I carry all the time. In those gym pants with side pockets, I
especially bought for that purpose. Easily reachable, if you so wish, like
prayer beads to chant upon. And mostly when I am awake, I see flowers and
stars. Some flowers like stars or stars like flowers. Starfish. Vivid, almost
illuminating the backdrops of our muse yearnings.
*Roti:
A round flatbread native to the South
Asian subcontinent made from whole wheat flour. *Maslow: Abraham
Maslow was an American
psychologist best known for creating the triangle of hierarchy of needs. *Ghee:
Rarified butter * Yves Tanguy, French surrealist painter (1900-1955) *Khichdi:
A simple comfort food native to the South Asian subcontinent.
By
quilt artist Manju Narain, Chicago, Illinois, USA based on a painting by Anju
Mathur who was inspired by Picasso
Muse of biorhythms
The highs and the lows trundle through. Through the blue maze that
changes blues. Zig zagging, merrily munching on an apple a day keeps the doctor
away. Every angle from where I look, the face is heavily patched. A little
lopsided or two despite the apple, and the arctic and sky blue. The chin is
crooked, the forehead split yet not wretched. The joker and the jester are
bubbly and alive. Their jokes and laughter though sticky as if they’d come
straight from a beehive. I see Hitchcock befuddled scratching his head, poor
man. He thinks the highs and lows have no special mind, soul, heart, or body
plan. Forget Kamasutra! So, he eyes the escape route for himself. One that was
not in his Birds movie bookshelf. In and out go the eyes. Not
far behind are the goodbyes. The ears are not matching. Seemed the muse meant
them for a spanking. The muse the biorhythms had carefully petitioned. Yet, I
can easily punch in my birthdate and have one daily commissioned. It’s a head
without a body smiling at us. Painted like shock therapy on a moving
bus. “…nothing about this place made any sense…” yet, cyclic
biorhythms are shifting, reactivating. adding new value. Wipe the sweat, seems
like there is a breakthrough.
*Kamasutra: an ancient Indian Hindu Sanskrit text on sexuality, eroticism, and emotional fulfillment in life said to have been written by Vātsyāyana *Birds: A 1963 American natural horror-thriller film produced and directed by Alfred Hitchcock. * “…nothing about this place made any sense…” Part of. Line spoken by Thomas from the movie The Maze Runner