Anagrams

I do not understand. I cannot tell who is real, or who is imagined. I tell myself that it does not matter, but it does. I tell him that the book is strange, but I cannot say why; I tell her I will write to her about it, but I cannot begin. I am restless when the book ends, my right leg is shaking in the way that my aunt hates, and I am chewing on my lower lip because I want to say something, but do not know what.

So I pick on lines, and metaphors, on Lorrie Moore’s sentences that throw images at me before leaving them there and carrying on, unconcerned. They are hanging and unconnected to the larger story that should be more important, but it really isn’t. I have grown accustomed to the importance of this larger story, to focus on all that happens, and how people there react; I have grown accustomed, and forgotten to look beyond.

I both am and am not the Benna that Moore creates; it is easy for me to forget that her daughter, Georgianne, exists only in her head, that she is just differently real. I think of all the people I have made up, none with so much detail or feeling, I do not know what they look like, or sound like, or what they are wearing. In our conversations, I am saying the smart, witty, sensible things I would not have said otherwise, and these people disappear when our conversations grow old. But for Benna, her daughter is real—she hugs her, shows her the wisdom tooth she has had removed, finds her a baby sitter, and takes care of her when she is ill. “I made up a real daughter,” “I don’t go around making up imaginary daughters,” she tells Gerard. There is Benna’s real, my real, and the reals we have created.

There is a moment when Benna sees Georgianne standing at the top of a staircase. In that moment I wondered what she saw, but it is only a moment for me; Benna does not stop to think that her daughter is not really there, and her story moves on. I wonder what Benna is actually doing when she is with daughter—sitting, standing, teaching, or in a café—like the times she meets her friend Eleanor, who is as real as Georgianne. They meet at cafés and over dinner and talk about everything—poetry, Middlemarch, men—important things that matter, even if you do not want them to.  Eleanor and Georgianne are like the characters you want to create when you write, the characters that grow beyond your control, and take your stories where they want to go.

“Meaning, if it existed at all, was unstable and could not survive the slightest reshuffling of letters,” Benna says, as she talks about language and words. It is this reshuffling that she is always doing—in her metaphors, in the people in her life-both real and differently real, in the images that she creates, and the stories that she tells and retells. Benna’s story is a pack of cards shuffled perfectly for a game; hers is also more than one story. Then what is meaning?

In memory

I have not written in a while. I have reached some place where words do not rush out like they used to; falling over themselves like all the times I did at school. They ran fast, those words, rushing forward like people at bus stops who want at that moment, nothing more than one of the three empty seats in the bus that has just arrived. Once there, they would subside into themselves, folding like brightly coloured origami paper along creases she had come to make for herself. Like this woman, those words would sit there—sometimes uncomfortably—momentarily forgotten to those but herself among the more unwieldy ones. But these words came, and now they do not.

When she asks me why I have not written, I don’t know what to say. I mumble something about time, about trying, but in all this while, I haven’t. It is becoming easier to tell myself that I have indeed tried, I have said this so many times that it seems true. This place has only words spoken but they do not do much, they are always too few or too many. The words I want come to me through writing that belongs to others—there has been so much of this lately, but it hasn’t been enough to bring me words of my own. I sit on the corner of my bed, re-reading old blog posts and stories, seeing no more than how much has changed. At seventeen, there was the girl who was nervously discovering words again. At eighteen and nineteen, she was using them because they made her happy.

Now, I remember that woman clearly, but cannot find her. I am sitting on the floor in the balcony this evening with a newly opened document, hoping that some words will come for her, and for me.

Outside, inside

I am thinking about writing.

She sits before me, telling me everything feels like a square.

In my head the square has compartments, divisions,

One small square next to another small square within a bigger square.

Corners that held and couldn’t be changed, lines that contained and couldn’t be moved.

She said everything was a square, and she was outside it.

 

One by one I took them out and placed them in a line

An arrangement of four post its that another she had drawn on,

Four separate strips, four different colours, a complete face.

Four different faces that made one face.

Post its stuck together somewhere in a book closed carefully each time so that they wouldn’t get folded.

 

They fit, for a moment the squares in my head fit too,

Like puzzles your five-year-old self completed and left on the floor

And those alphabetically arranged books on your slightly bending shelf, placed neatly—

Until new ones come in, becoming piles you have to reach behind to turn on the light.

Piles that threaten to fall but never do.

My bus arrives and I stand up to leave, telling her that she has made her square,

Wondering if she should try and place the squares like diamonds.

But diamonds still have lines, with their corners that contain,

And instead of new stationary, you think of paint stuck on a palette that you can never remove.

 

As you walk, the squares become stories.

Of the girl who told you she didn’t like to walk alone and so you walked with her.

You do not know her name but you cannot ask her, you think she knows yours, and too much time has passed.

Of the man in the park who leaves a stone on the bench next to you to count the number of rounds he has walked.

Of the times you planned to write for months, but never did because writing was then just one thing, not everything.  

Those separate squares, still within a larger square,

Their stories within yours; for them, your story within theirs.

And a square for your bus journey when she told you about her square and you thought of yours and wrote.

Untitled

She drew a hasty star. “No extra sheets”, she wrote next to it, leaving the last bit of chalk in her hand to fall to the floor. Starred. Important. Please note, keep in mind. They would not give us extra sheets. And sitting there, I worried. Next to me she had begun to write, her hair falling on her face, hand moving across the white sheet purposefully. She had something to say. So did the others—the boy in front of me wrote, hunched over the paper before him; the boy next to him wrote, covering his sheet with his hand. His story was his to tell.

I wrote. Five lines, more words. My single sheet of paper already quarter filled; a momentary pause, and almost no consideration—lines crossed out. No extra sheets and I was wasting paper. I tried to write, blowing at words towards a chosen direction because the air they hung in would not exhale and carry them there. Because the air had caught its breath and everything had paused, my words had paused; an ensuing silence, not oppressive, just waiting. I was waiting.

But I had just one sheet to tell my story; I couldn’t pretend to be looking at the various packets of chips in the canteen when what I was really trying to do was not see him. There was so much I wanted to say, so many stories I wanted to tell because I needed to process them, feel them; stories that lay like my clothes in a basket asking to be washed and worn again. Writing was dropping a chocolate wrapper from the third floor of a building and watching it get carried away by the wind; clothes going in circles over and over in a washing machine that would stop only when the cycle was completed.

The first side of my sheet, three quarters filled. Outside I see my friends making faces at me, waving, and I laugh. She, waiting to tell me what she has done, knowing that I always want to hear. Him smiling, as though he knows exactly what I am thinking, and what I am going to say.

I write to show myself what I see, to break down what I feel to know what it is I actually mean. I write, rewrite, and now I remember how the backspace key on my laptop is a friend I depend too much on. I used to write in notebooks, I remember how easy I found it to write then. There was just my blue ink pen, a carefully chosen notebook, a fresh page, and a story. No pause, no hesitation. In the end the words would lie there, clear, strong, and I’d be happy.

Back then I always wrote the same story.  I wrote to remember Amma, because at twelve I worried that I would forget her. I wrote to remember little details—the sound of her voice, her smell, her laughter, our rides home from music class in the evenings, her office. I wrote because I worried that her passing did not seem real to me, because reading the letters she had left me when I was twelve made me cry, and at fifteen made me happy. Because that night I had believed that nothing could go so terribly wrong; I clung to something, perhaps to Appa repeating over and over that he could feel a pulse. I wrote because I was strangely calm as I watered the plants next morning and told the neighbours what had happened when they asked me how Amma was, and the woman ran into her house; because I later cried as I had a bath and realised how dramatic the scene was. I looked at photographs and created stories around them because memories with empty spaces are not really considered memories, and in a frantic desire to have anchoring, vivid recollections, the empty spaces are often unconsciously filled, leaving an almost whole fragment.

One-and-a-half sides of my sheet have been filled, and there is now a distance when I write. I tell the same story differently; perhaps I will continue to do so as long as I tell the story. Words are suddenly emerging as easily as before, briefly I wonder if it is because I do not like to see crossed out words on a paper, because I like it when things are neat. I remember all the stories on my laptop, mostly uncompleted, and think of all the stories I have wanted tell. I write because writing is creating, and words can make me realise the normal. Now, I don’t only write to remember.

I have finished my sheet of paper. I look up at the board, the words have been erased. No extra sheets. No longer starred, no longer important. Do not keep in mind. The air had exhaled.