Winter morning sunlight shining through fog made by my exhale... The glare is just almost too bright for my eyes.
My boots clip clop along the wet cobblestones of West Drayton as red buses vroom past me- their tires splashing puddles.
It's all so familiar, this life I once lived.
I skip across the street to the green grocer on the corner as soon as the traffic lights turn red and the funny little hatchback cars on the wrong side of what looks like a oneway street in LA come to a polite stop... I cross the few steps through stopped cars and walk into the quintessential English produce shoppe- with flowers and fruit out front - displayed in perfect lines.
Each piece of fruit has a sticker citing place of origin and each apple is perfect in size, color and overall appearance.
Like the girls in LA- flawless but cloned- somehow inauthentic in their perfection.
Again- memories of a life I used to live - a state I used to aspire towards. A me I used to be.
These days I feel rather like the odd shaped fly covered pieces of produce piled on a dusty blanket that lays right on the road of an Indian village.
Random bulls and cows meander past eyeing the perfectly imperfect fruit, waiting for the vendor to get distracted so they can have a little free sample.
But I am so stoked on apples right now, I clip clop off that wet stone sidewalk and buy myself two pink ladies and an orange. Peeling off the stickers with dismay. These stickers are like badges of honor for being beautiful.
"I'd think you were beautiful even if you had bad skin and an abnormally long stem." I whispered to the perfect pink apple before biting into it.
Oh. My. God.
I died and went to heaven with that bite. The nectar splashed across my tongue and I literally jumped in the air wiggling around and squealing as I walked back down the street. A huge grin spread across my face.
An elderly woman with a cane and a shopping bag on wheels flinched and stuck her hand out towards me as though to say "get away." - clearly somewhat terrified by the bindi and backpack wearing gypsy excitedly eating fruit as she walked down the street.
There is just not enough joy in this country for me.
Sometimes it doesn't bother me. Sometimes I can be joyous and excited and stoked on life enough for everyone- but being in India surrounded by people like me- surrounded by a culture of people who laugh and sing and hold eachother tight and smile as you walk down the street...
I don't know - I guess I just no longer want to fit inside a mold- wear a sticker that says where I am from and that I've passed the culturally acceptable test for being beautiful- I don't want to get up in the dark and go to a boring job to make money that will pile up in my account until I get 2 weeks to go pretend like I'm actually traveling and seeing a place - when in reality I'll just be staying in a nice hotel and experiencing "luxury" as a reward for my "hard work"...
(okay- okay- not that I've really done that so much in this life)...
But I see it- all the time.
Especially in the UK where it seems the goal is to own a house and settle deeper into the joylessness.
I hate to be harsh because I really do love this country. I love the people of the UK (I mean- hell... I married one when I was 19 yrs old)...
But the motivation for life here is just not one that I understand.
My teacher- a guy called the Dalai Lama giggles when he teaches and tells me to just BE HAPPY.
I'm with him.
But I also know that sometimes you have to fit inside a box before you can break out of it.
I lived in this box. I actually lived in a shoebox... A tiny little studio flat off Kensington Church Street behind the Notting Hill Arts Club. I wore a pencil skirt and a French twist and rode a train to an office- traveling with my head down, avoiding eye contact with fellow fiercely commuting office workers.
I actually had a great time living this London life!
I was a weekend warrior- the pub after work on Friday would become a club into the wee hours of Saturday which would become a hair of the dog pub day followed by a dinner and dancing which would become a club into the wee hours of Sunday.
This was, of course, unless I was on a long weekend holiday to a European city or back to California to see my family.
(I had to pay the company I was working for lots of money/time back for all the vacation I took and was not actually entitled to when I quit.) - I never sat still. Maybe ever in my life actually.
I really did love living here as a newlywed and ex-pat. We had great friends and fun routines... But I was definitely in a hamster wheel and spent 100 pounds on a night out on the town as if that was totally normal. I got completely accustomed to and disillusioned by the unbelievable wealth here that feels unshockingly normal.
A me I used to be.
I wonder though... Was I happy then?
In all honesty... Looking back - I think I was!
As I remember (and as old facebook photos seem to affirm)... I smiled a lot. I had great friends, cool stuff, awesome boots and fun adventures around this continent I came to know so well.
Europe is a fantastic place.
But I wasn't free. I think that's the main difference.
It's funny because I was thinking about this the other day in India... Watching a stray dog wander around and play with the other strays... Eat whatever he wanted... Bark as loud as he wanted... Totally free.
But he slept in the cold night air on a sidewalk curled up next to a stray cow to try to keep warm.
I thought of Jessica and Margot's puppies - invariably wrapped in cashmere at that exact moment in time- a world and a half away from where I was in Rhishikesh. Their dogs are warm and fed organic dog food and their fur groomed and shampooed with expensive dog friendly products. But they aren't allowed to bark or run free across a field.
Is one life better then the next or are they just different existences?
Maybe I just want to bark and roam free for a while... Cruise outside the box I just broke out of for a while... Even if it means I sleep on a sidewalk or two. As long as I have my friends- life loving, free spirited radical light beings around me to remind me why I am here... I'll be AOK.
This is the me I am now.
A barking apple eating gypsy poet. What of it?
No comments:
Post a Comment