Memory lists

‘But isn’t it overwhelming?’… I think much of the magic lies in this sensory overload. And though I admit Bombay has treated me to some WICKED luck: I found this quirky lovely attic in a 150 year old cottage in the most bohemian charming neighborhood right near the beach, happened upon holi, am meeting people left and right, and have two productions of VMs to research here- been here under a week and already seen a Hindi and English version. I am in a state of near-constant appreciation. Re-reading that, it sounds braggy- it's not all perfect, I am dehydrated and sweaty all the time.

Maybe it’s where I’m at in my life, but this surreal wash of stimulation is so vital, I’m relishing it. Tastes, spices in the air stinging my eyes, rose milk, smoke, dust... I daily make these bizarre lists to try and remember the details, and they wind up sounding like some frantic fevered litany. I found a scrap of paper from the other day that read: nostalgic smell, all women, albino toes, glee pets, alien beauty, forget what look like.

I myself can’t even decipher some of my scratches, and over coffee a few days later these attempts to immortalize the details that compose my life feel so desperate and ephemeral. I know that leaning out the rickety train while pushed against the crush of humanity I get these powerful hits of nostalgia- it has to do with trash, sweet hot air, I don’t know what, but it overwhelms me and makes me feel 17 again, so jaded about somethings and painfullysweetly innocent about others.

I remember watching these two ancient uncles sitting at the station as we thundered through, and through the frenetic crowds they were a pocket of quiet, stroking this gleeful writhing kitten and I couldn’t tell who was happier.

I remember pondering how the lack of mirrors in my life, and always being behind the camera lens instead of in front, leads me to slightly forget what I look like. I asked a friend about this, ‘does this happen to you?’ and he had no idea what I was talking about. It’s disorienting, seeing yourself- maybe because we are always changing. If I was handed charcoal and told to draw myself, I would have no idea where to begin; the girl who emerged would be uglier, or prettier, either way completely unrelated to me. It’s not that this woman is a stranger, but her lines are fuzzy even in my short term memory.