rupisima’s Upstream Escape

I don’t  do papaya.

I just don’t.  Papaya is … how can I explain my disdain for papaya?

Do you remember the day we went to the shore? We spent  the whole day before making preparations for the trip. You bought those orange sandals. Yes, those that everyone can’t help ogling as you dangerously dangle anonymous hide for their coveteousness. I barely managed to pack my shorts that day and got reprimanded because they did not match my shirt. I hate that you need to make my shorts match my shirt. I hate that every piece of my wardrobe has to be closely tailored to your events.

I digress…

I was delayed and distracted because I spent that day looking for a perfect ring. A ring that could match your imagination and my pocket and  a respite between these two.  

Needless to say, four hours and 10 jewellers later, I still hadn’t found it.

I got home to find your orange sandals sitting on the kitchen counter next to a papaya scented soy candle and  a message on our voicemail  from a jeweller letting you know that your engagement rings had been sized and were ready for collection. I deleted the message. The scent of papaya remained in the air for several minutes before you came in. I mismatched my shorts and hated you.

Since then,

I just don’t do papaya.

Sarah McLachlan -Ice Cream

Gulp. Smack. Crash... bang...
As I was saying elsewhere -she often makes me forget where I am- it is
her elusiveness that makes it imperative to find a site a
not--so-preposterous space within which to contextualize and develop
her character. So finding myself on this page- serendipitously, and
rather graciously and anonymously tipped by Garry- I wonder how you
got here. What are you running from? What are you
creating/building/demolishing/maintaining/saving?

Me? I am trying to work. I am running away from my vacation ... I am
not really sure how, but she's got me running between continents,
books, films, forgotten bars and other real and imagined places. I am
not really sure what to do with her. On a good day she makes another
lofty promise and makes me buy her coffee (despite being a tea
drinker, or is it the other way around?).
She drinks her chai in a glass.
She makes me redefine girl. On a not so good day I am left with
incoherence, questioning the utility and sound of words, sites and
lost in between the keys of my laptop. She runs. I run. I make a site
for her. She smiles. She moves.
She moves
She promises. She arrives. She dangles.
She dangles
She hides. I look for her on my keyboard. I get lost. She runs. I ...
I don't know what to do, so I run. I get lost. I keep running chasing
invisible shadows as if possessed by the smell of the first monsoon
rain. Preposteous. Impractical. Irreverent.
I come here to run away from her, from the memory of her and yet she
has already taken over this first post.
I run
I run