When asked the difference between America and the U.K. in 1953,Winston Churchill , with a cigar hanging out of the corner of his loudspoken mouth, deadpan said,"They're the same country divided only by language!"

Smile.

She sits in her lavender posture reading a book opposite me on the brown textured sofa.She sits rigid, like discipline.Like the prescribed rules she's taught the world.Unbent .Unbroken. Glasses on her nose ridge , she looks old and beaten.Beaten by a stubborn reluctance to change.Beaten by routine.
She soon starts talking about everything ,I hardly listen.
Cant stop and listen to her world of tiny details and routine monologues.
I wander with the flute and santoor that are resonating hoarsely from my disturbed speakers.They are vainly competing with the mosquitoes buzzing in my scrunched ear.Sounds like Marlon Brando's great Godfather.Bass on high and mode on POP, and it starts sounding like music.
I wander in instrumental ecstasy,until the mossies attack again .I attempt to catch the damned mosquito with my front paws.This I realise is on par with trying to get snot off your fingernail,
because the bloomin' mosquito is quick for his age.Not that i tried ascertaining it before trying to put that loquacious soul to rest.So now I'm cursing these Mafia men.Soon they'll be a horde of his finest marksmen swarm upon me with drawn proboscis' -loaded with the safety off.

HArk! I hear a typewriter.Rat-ta-tack-chack-tat seems to flow with the tabla and flute.
A menage-a-trois of unconventional instruments .
She stops and listens.Never has the typewriter sounded less annoying .
We smile at each other.
The world needs more typewriters.

an ant lesson

Ants crawl up the naked wall,
Dry cracks thunder down
And strike me in my wordless bed.
Struggling for breath ,I see
Their careful colony,
Through the pin-prick raining cracks,
Then black and quiet they turn to me.
March into my eyes.
My despairing cracks slide back up ,
With them my frayed nerves.
Now,black and quiet ,I breathe.
Finally tomorrow will bring words on my careful page.

(the lesson of careful precision and slow construction taught by the worker ants inspires a habitually spontaneous, temporarily dry poet to let the words flow again)

2 rooms at the back of the house!

Ah! the sweet smell of a dirty old room reconverted into a studio , with paint peeling off the walls , water seeping into them.Ah!the feel of a fancily textured red and grey floor, with cement stuck onto the floor during renovation then scraped off with a tiny scraper leaving a floor reminiscent of a jagged abstract !
Well,this is it . What I've always wanted .Space and freedom to really make a mess of a place ..or make it look good..depending on how one looks at it.If you're anything close to my mother ..definitely this place will be the biggest garbage dump within a five mile radius,minus the flies ..plus the ragpicker.Yeah ! ME.