Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Sunil the Thief

Somewhere in the deep jungles of southern Sri Lanka is Sunil. He is known as the Bachelor, also as Sunil the Thief, and Sunil the Handsome, and of course Sunil Who Returns. He is getting older now. His long white hair clings stubbornly to his scalp. It is not the thick perfection it once was, and yet, his mustache still shows the virility of his youth, as it ever will. What maiden can resist the temptations of Blue-Skinned Sunil's Mustache?

They say that on long cool nights you can see him running, slightly out of breath. With the wind at his back he reaches speeds, well not nearly the speeds he used to reach, but still speeds of valor. They say that you can see him leap cliffs, and climb up the tallest trees. Some sages whisper that in his youth Sunil could run along across the tops of branches, almost as a bird in flight.

Sages also tell of the tragedies left in Sunil's wake, of the ruined women, the absent mothers and the hordes of his many scorned fiancees that can be seen chasing him through the dark and moistened trees. The jungles thick vines hampering their every step, as they strain to catch their hearts prize. Each of these poor wretches was left at the altar, as a profane sacrifice to the gods, or to the men whose hearts they broke in turn.

Whatever the reason, the chase goes on, and it will continue until Sunil climbs up into a white-flowering tree. He will release the women from the bonds of love by laying down his life to the serpent he will find there, but it will not last. From the serpents egg will spring a new Sunil, who will run across the land and unknowingly draw women from their lovers arms even as he flees their caresses.

This is what will happen, it is written in neat white scripts running up and down Sunil's deep blue arms. On his back are the curses of Lakshmi, who loved Sunil from the moment she looked down from her chariot, which is drawn by nine white and black swans.

A Special: Iceberg Lettuce

The staff of the Particular made his way over to the 6 Sentences ( blog the other day, and the staff decided, on a whim, to submit six sentences to their site. On the very likely chance that they wouldn't approve, the editor-in-chief (god rest his blackened soul) decided to publish those six sentences here. The title of the piece is "Iceberg Lettuce." Without much further commotion, here it is:

Iceberg Lettuce
"On first dates, Africa doesn't count", she told me this when I brought up the subject of places we'd each like to see. I thought about answering the question with a very smooth, but ultimately futile: "Your apartment." She answered first though and she said the south pole. She carried on and on about how cute penguins were, or rather, are. I couldn't listen anymore, not with my childhood flashing before my eyes, I got up and left. Penguins killed my father.

Summer's Fat Dripping Down Our Chins

Here we are in the thick of July. Deep in the heart of this hazy, thrice-hexed season. We're sitting on the porch, breathing heavily in the descending sunlight. Our movements are slow and thin, as if our limbs were too large and too porcine to penetrate the calm and ease of this moment. This is the moment when I learned about how I really felt about you, myself, and every item in my life.

It isn't so much indifference as another greater sort of benevolent apathy. Here on the porch, safe within its halcyonic columns, I can clearly see the sun dipping below the horizon. Above us, high above the purpling clouds, come out the fireflies, and we are lost. For our gaze drifts between them and the curling smoke that comes in waltzes from our lips. One, two, three, one, two, three, and again again the waltz- breathe breathe smoke, breathe breathe smoke. Rising from the ashes of our cigarettes are moths that flutter in the growing moonlight. They fly west towards the sky's lowering flame, like humans towards delusions.

We, all of us, all that matter for the moment, are here, gathered on the porch. We watch the towns around us, and we watch the flickering light from the cities on the hill. What more can one ask than this, this twilight paradise? Truly on our porched thrones we are kings and queens, emperors and empresses, coronated with soft fluttering breezes that chill our sweat dripping bodies. We sit in the blessedly growing darkness as the fat of summer drips down our chins.