Aching for the Past.

The story has ended;
Suddenly whilst reading the pages ran out.
I rub my fingers against the corner of the last page.
Perhaps two have stuck together,
clinging to each other for fear of the end.
No such luck.
I flip to the front to begin again, but every word is faded, impossible to decipher.
It's as if they never were.


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Failing

I have loved you more than I can say, and what words I have are failing.

My minds pages cracked and dry, my spine ruptured, slowly breaking.

My cover faded and vague.

Your face, faded and vague.

Looking through myself I expect to find many stories and tales,

But each one is writ over with your name, only your name.

I have loved you more than I could say, and what words I have, have failed.

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Surrey/Where I Belong

Surrey. Car theft capital of North America 2002.

Surrey. Fuckin’ brown people.

Not you Indu, you’re cool, I mean, you’re practically white.

Surrey. Natasha.

Seven years since we parted ways and every day, in every face I see, something reminds me of you.

Surrey. Must be Latin for things fall apart here.

Love falls apart here. Families fall apart here.

Family.

“A’s, you should be getting A+’s”
“She wants to be an actor. Sitting around all the time watching movies.”

“You’re what? Valedictorian? I don’t know what that is, I don’t care”

Surrey. Leave Surrey.

University. University. Must be Latin for impersonal academic objectivity shoved so far up your ass you choke. I can’t even say art anymore. Nevermind theatre.
So I forgot how. I forgot.

Until... Theatre at UBC Presents Billy Bishop Goes to War. That show was like seeing the face of God. It was so undeniably real. And I think to myself, I wanna do that. I hold onto this feeling. This feeling, this feeling, I hold on when there’s nothing else to hold onto. I hold on until three years of rejection letters pay off. Until someone finally says, hey, we want you. Until I remember where I belong. Where I belong. Where I belong.

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Voice Poem 2

I have a hunger in me.

A deep, ripping, hunger in me.

I feed it silence, to soothe the aches and the cramps.

Silence. It tastes like… neglect.

                                               

I have a hunger in me…and yet I have lost my appetite.

I have gorged myself with silence and I won’t ever need to feed again.

Silence has numbed me.

Payschu yariku venum?

But suddenly a pang, but suddenly a convulsion deep inside

I have fed myself silence and now I am sick.

I am sick. I AM SICK. I am sick and silence has come to taste like blood.

I try to cleanse my numb, disfigured body with a touch of sound but it burns my skin and I choke on the fumes.

I have a hunger in me and I fear I will starve.

I crumple down to the earth and weep, but as tears fall into my open mouth

I taste truth.  

I taste myself. My soul. I hear my heartbeat and the silence is broken. And I, I am hungry

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Travels.

Still in the works.
-------------------

Way up there in an old sky where I used to go
With clumsy dreams and messy feelings, boys and girls telling jokes. 
There was a place in another time, where love was no crime, and ideas took people across oceans 
Like boats. 
I drank the water of such an ocean and the taste overflowed,
I drank the wine of another time and became too heavy to float. 
My bloods journey smells of sand and gangrene
My mothers eyes are red and white like  old flesh that gently bleeds. 
There are no more birds in the sky and the wine is drank up,
I am a kind woman with a bitter mind, choking as my story erupts. 


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Ride

The February post titled "take me home" is the evolved product of this draft. 
________________

I felt as lonely then as I do now,

As I have felt for years. The comfort is hard to forget,

A warm morning bed ripe with perfectly grown crevasses and ripples.

Why do I think sadness will take me home?

Sadness, though full of memories and longing will not take me to those old places.

Sadness is not a train to my home station, to the platform where my journey began.

Sadness is the whistle, reminding me where I am,

Reminding me what this journey is, and that I have chosen it.


A warm morning bed ripe with perfectly grown crevasses and ripples,

A carriage of a greater machine,

Unable to stop though the cord has been pulled.


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Extension of the Gut

This is a statement I wrote in April 2011 as per the requirements of George Brown's Audition. I like it.  I thought I would share.

For many, theatre is the name of a space with a stage and seating, black curtains and Fresnel’s, and hopefully, good acoustics. Some people call theatre an art, an aesthetic medium for exploring the questions that define our struggles as human beings. I say that theatre is an extension of the gut which when left unfed will ulcerate and corrode the carrier from inside. I say that theatre is not a choice but a visceral need for those who discover it calling from inside of them. Theatre is the only place outside of the womb where true creation takes place, and a return to the womb is what we as humanity need, because we’re dying. We need a rebirth.