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Saturday, December 26, 2009

Sunday, December 20, 2009

I'm a woman who shaves her face and neck.

I have had it with the tweezers.
Oh they were fun. There were the red lights and the rear view mirrors, the moments in the children parks on the large mirrored surfaces with perfect light, there were other people's bathrooms with other lights, and the joy of finding that perfect moment with a suitable light / mirror combination and the tweezers in hand. Pluck and scan and pluck and scan.
It all started when I was forty. I was brushing my teeth one morning as I am wont to do and BAM! there it was on my right jowl, just at the level of the mandible, catching the sunlight in my mother's bathroom. I touched it and it was thin and long and I wondered how long it had hung out there growing on its own with nary so much as a note to me. I reached for my mom's tweezer and pulled it out. The end.
It was a busy time then, mom was in stage IV of pancreatic cancer. I was driving back and forth from NYC to be with her during the week so my sister who's children were in school would be able to be there on week ends. My life was falling apart on many levels. I had just lost the home I'd known for over a decade, been declared disabled and left my work as an ESL teacher, found myself on a bridge ready to jump only to return to first avenue and find my way to bellevue in a posture of complete weepy surrender. I had also learned, while ringing a lover's bell, that being forty meant that one could wet their pants while sneezing. Ah, the unneccessary mysteries of aging.
So, when I saw that same hair there again a week later, I plucked it again. The end.
Then I began to look for it. As it showed up I snapped it up. The end.
My mom died and I returned to NYC. However, the stress of the changes in my life and the new pressures of my sister's insane proclamation that I had fudged mom's will made me seek calmer shores. I headed to the town of hopewell junction where I had spent some lovely time swimming in a lake and feeling at one with the planet. A friend had a room for rent. I could afford it. It was near a library. I was set.
Then as I realized how many times these innocent decisions turn out to be trial and tribulation for the soul, I saw that my chin hair had company. There were now three or four sprouts. So I plucked them too.
In a couple of years, when I had found my happy home in Hudson, NY, far from the straight jacketed world of Hopeless, I was the owner of several tweezers. I had a couple in my car, one or two in my bags, and of course the best ones in the medicine cabinets. I became an afficionada of tweezers, understanding that price was not always indicative of quality. I became obsessive. My hands were always at my chin and along my jaw line. My moustache was the same as ever. But the hair on my chin, and then my neck, just kept getting thicker and more populous.
By the time I left my fourth home away from NYC and the woman I almost married, tweezing was as much a part of my life as writing, swimming, and eating.
I was forty six when I finally found my way back to the dirty rotten apple that I love so much to call home sweet home. I finally went to a beauty parlor for some threading. Seven dollars and yes, the hair had to grow between trips. So what I wasn't so vain. I could survive a week or two. And I knew, no one really looked. Or rather no one really saw. People don't see. However, I just don't like hair on my face. My eyebrows yes, and the fuzz above my lips. But not these pokes of growth like some strange type of weed.
I found a salon that threaded me. The women were from Nepal. It was on my way to and from places I often went to. There was a conviviality about reclining in the chair and giving one's self up to the care of others.
I left my tweezers alone and missed them naught one bit.
All this time, I owned razors for the times I would shave below my waist or under my arms. Nothing regular, but always an option. Razors were no option for my chin hair though. I had been warned since a child that women did not shave their faces. The hair will grow back thicker, harder, coarser, ugly, manly. Oh, no. My sister said it. When I told her I was getting threadings on a regular basis she was pleased.
"But, why not shave?" I asked. "So much quicker. No money, either."
Her answer was no surprise. She repeated the horror story of shaved facial hair.
Still my facial hair was coming in thicker, blacker, more manly, if that what course meant, from the tweezing and the threading.
I loved the women who worked in the salon I went to. I had a card that they would punch. Soon I would have a free session. We laughed and I was entertaining. It was a vacation in the river of tasks that make up a NYC week. It was around ten dollars a pop with the tip. I went every other week, sometimes every week. I could have gone twice a week with my Indian hair popping up uninvited all over my face.
The economy made me face certain facts. I haven't paid my rent in two months. I've been without paid work for three months. I'm scared shitless about spending money on this or that. My new mouth is demanding new food. NO way in hell am i dropping ten dollars on the lovely ladies, wish them luck without me, and my facial hair woes. The tweezers no longer feel good in my hands. I don't want the obsession or the time or the squinching of the eyes. I want the hair gone fast.
So I reached for my razor as I prepared for the first session of my writer's workshop this October. I lathered up my chin with soap and I scraped my face with my pretty pink double bladed razor with the flowers on it.
The hair comes back stubbly, yes; I pass the razor again. No more moments with my tweezers and no more ten dollar visits to houses of beauty. I own the means to my facial hair production.
I am woman. I shave my face and chin and even some bits of my throat.
Google woman's facial shaving and you'll see that the jury is out on the truth so many hold dear as to how this is not a good answer. Some dermatologist even find shaving to be healthy as microdermabrasion or something.
If you are wondering what to do with your own facial hair, save yourself the time and the money, and start off right with the razor in hand. Shave. I do.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Susan Musgrave, (You Didn't Fit); Her dead dad; My dead dad.

Susan Musgrave dedicated her poem entitled "You Didn't Fit" to her father and its funny and poignant. I dig that combo, f & p rocking me when i think of it. Finding this poem felt especially meaningful on the week of December 11th.

I wrote "You Didn't Fit" down in my own notebook, savoring the lines as I copied them. Now its gone missing. I got to get it again. well, at least its not my phone that is missing again. Three times this month I've gone to buy twenty dollar phones, that is sixty dollars down the cellular drain. And you cannot even call!

What's missing is my own dad, nearly thirty years. Died December 11, 1980. Pre-ATM, pre INternet, Pre cell phone; pre Operation desert storm; pre pakistan india nuclear testing; pre swine flu. Pre me being such a loud mouthed out dyke with a gaggle of neices and nephews that would have made you smile the sun through your face. I remember that smile as i walked into your office at the univeresity with Taraneh.

As many years of you gone as Jade or Chavisa have merely existed. I myself have lived only a third of my life with you now. That number grows the longer I live. Every anniversary is another that you miss my own. The nineteen years we shared was mostly in a version of me that i can only claim nostalgically.

I would love to have an hour or a day or a week or a year with you now. I guess i would trade that last year. It was a sad year. Three of your girls were away. You had a deeper shadow of sad. The dark circles of your eyes had become the black holes that fascinated you in space. Your logic ration was frittering away in the face of girls growing up, retirement looming, and that ever present itch calling you home to a home you hadn't known for several decades, except as self appointed cultural liason between N.E. Pennsylvania and India.

That thanksgiving I came home from my off campus apartment and begged you not to die. I don't blame you now for not keeping your word even for a month. You were after all half asleep with the book fallen to your side and your glasses slipping down your nose. How did you manage to sleep in all the commotion? You had promised me a car. That I won't let you forget. Especially with the gift of your funny feet, old man sam.....what would i call you now?

There's a line in "You Didn't Fit" that the woman recalls how she once wanted to marry her dad and then left. I remember running away from home and twisting my foot in the parking lot behind the ACME. My dad came in his car, looking for me???, and i couldn't get his attention. I sat there for hours and then hobbled home. I haven't stopped falling. I passed you far on that one. High arches, flat feet and champagne legs. Did you ever even hear of Charcot Marie Tooth?

There is such mystery on your family. And my mother's. Only one conversation in September of the same year, when we rode through the Lincoln tunnel into NYC, long before Disney decimated times square, long before I found my heart and soul in tompkins square park one 3AM morning. You had the tears in your eyes that day. What exactly did you say that day? I could never ask. You are dead. Dead like Susan Musgrave's dad. Like so many dads. None of them as smart and funny and cool as you. But why were you so serious sometimes when really it was supposed to be a party? Like Diwali with George Gulbin. You needed the grown up me. I wonder if you ever realized. I knew. I worried. I clung to the smile. I felt the shadows.

Its way strange when your one true parent becomes myth before you ever become you.

I remember him standing near some big leafed tree he had planted in his younger days in his hometown in India. Dad was visiting me in Delhi and we took a trip together, leaving behind the first woman i ever made love to in the women's hostel of Indraprasth College. We ate mooli with lemon and spice from street vendors. My dad and I loved to eat together. Always outdoing ourselves with number of helpings.

I would like to visit Vandana Shiva with him. Vandana is a physicist too who is concerned with more than the theory of matter. Like dad, her concern for the planet is where she puts a lot of energy.

I would like to talk to him about being queer and see if he knew any historical/poetic references from that subcontinent/culture he loved so. Maybe we would start a NGO or a 501C3? Maybe we'd have to argue some points? We never shied from our confrontations.

Musgrave says something about how her dad never joined the crass men talk at the office party and she loved him harder. I remember loving my dad harder when he told my principal that my refusing to abandon the kitten i had found on the way to school was a sign of humanity more than a breach of school discipline and when he said "everyone ouch" every time the car pulled into the car port.

Nineteen years with you and thirty years next year with your absence, filling in your side of conversations with all the occult i can muster. No one knew you like I do. Until there was Bevbev who loved me as fierce and complete as you did, I never thought I could carry your memory without that sharp edge of lonely that cut my breath with ice.

Funny how I left Bevbev even so. Had you not died I could have the chance to leave you and visit occasionally with the various women and schemes that have peopled my years.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Rude Kids Don't Rule Me

there is a certain tyranny on me personally when parents don't do their jobs and teach their kids the very basics of manners. its also a bitch on the kids later on I am sure. but for now i will just go forward on how this is personally offensive, frustrating, crazy making.
I was on a bus this kid, cute as they all are in order to keep us all feeding them, maybe four or five years old, with his school bag on his shoulder/back, just takes the candy from this box and drops it on the floor. The mother watches him do this and does nothing. A man who saw the little box fall says "You dropped your pack of gum."
To which, the kid instead of saying thanks, says: "It ain't even gum and its empty."
I say: "That man was trying to help you. You usually say thanks in that case."
The mother finally acts. Her protective hackles up, she spins around and says: "I can take care of this situation, thank you."
"I'm just tired of all the rudeness that is coming from kids who are never told what to do." I say.
"Oh and you would know. You are being very helpful." She says. They get off the bus.
I don't know if i was helpful. I don't care about being helpful. I am so sick of parents acting like everyone in the whole world has to bend over backwards because they decided to procreate and find themselves running around doing the job of four people from day break to sleepy time.
These very people, who have kids, and start up on the biggest shopping sprees of their lives with everything from music lessons to lunchables have allowed for the biggest bill of goods the corporations have ever had the pleasure to devise. They are thoughtlessly sucked into becoming the consumers training program for the next several generations as well. The regular ordinary every day NYC parent works in one place; sends kid(s) to school(s) in other place(s) SOMETIMES OTHER BOROUGHS; then coordinates the rest of the time buying and spending and consuming voraciously.
The alarming effect of this is a sinister withdrawal from any sort of civic involvement. Since it is for the care of the children this withdrawal is lauded as heroic. Parents are thought to be selfless.
There involvement may extend to some committees of schools. (Here we are talking about economically advantaged parents.) Yet no where does the involvement extend further to the socio economical system that has grown so that kids (who once were relatively independent) are now the 24 hour tasks of overworked and exhausted parents who glibly put their young ones in to compete for fewer and fewer "choice" schools, etc.
When such a large portion of a supposed democracy is for all purposed absent in the democratic process the rest of us are also affected.
So, yes, teach your children basic manners or I will comment to them and you. They have to know that they are part of something larger. And so are you, mommies and daddies. Stop your smugness.
Most species on the planet can still self reproduce. Its not a big deal. Its not a big deal for them to know how to say excuse me, please, thank you and have an idea of other people's needs. What i see is less and less of the child's ability to empathize with others. They are the supernovas of their worlds.
This is all relatively a new focus of mine so I'm

Saturday, November 28, 2009

CHANGE: Inner and Outer Depression. Four quarters do not a dollar always make.

These are the worst of times and the best of times.
I drove into the very same parking spot I had left yesterday at 5PM this morning at 6AM. Being of a super stitious nature and a connosieur of the coincidence as well as a sucker for the serendipitous I pulled into the spot with a great deal of joy. Its Saturday and I will probably spend most of the day here writing. This I say with almost no undertow of resistance. Amazing considering where I have been most of my life.
The very act of writing has always been fraught with hellish doom and gloom and paralysis. Perhaps because it has always been my true love. Some might call it a calling. Other's a gift. I have felt it like a tease at best and a curse at my most depressed moment. I have turned my back to it, stuck my fingers in my ears to it. I have rejected it and beat myself up thoroughly for even ever imagining myself as a writer.
I joined in with others saying: writers write, if they are not writing then maybe they should stop calling themselves writers. Really made sense. Hurt like hell. But made sense. Sometimes it was momentarily liberating. No more facing the blank page or screen or scrolling through tedious lines of how much I want to write and cannot seem to get at what it is I really want to say.
Writing is a murky affair at best. When one is additionally tortured with depression it is worse. My therapist always believed in me as a writer. She said I spoke like a writer, dreamt like a writer. Even when I was angry with her I clung to that. Even when I searched the catalogs of law schools and 7 month radiation technologist trainings, her belief was plugged into my soul.
Depression needs work. It is not a cloud that wafts away. It is not the weather. It is a mess. Much like this economy is. A real mess requires real work, not pretty slogans and band aids. Not blind faith and trust. Not loyalty to anything other than honest assessment of the mess and commitment to change. For that I am grateful to my depression.
My depression has been a work in progress that has taught me how to work. How to live. How to problematize and solutionize.
Now the depression is over and I thank a combination cocktail of factorifiques: first of all there's my therapist; then there's Reiki, that is a spiritual exercise; finally there are the friends. Most importantly there is the synergy between those three elements. Perhaps we need to take a similar approach to the truly disfunctional sad state of affairs in this nation where 97 % of the people and perhaps 99% of children fall into the ditches.
Well, the writing and the rest of it is happening now, November 2009. And it is continuing herew and now in April 2011! Hurray!
Out in the streets there is an undeclared depression. Not the kind that kept me down for years, hiding under my covers and buying rat poison and placing ladders near hooks in ceilings, and scratching out words as soon as the ink hit the paper in a series of composition books that will never see the light of day. This depression is on the outside. Its all around me. People who have worked their entire lives are out of work.
It brings to focus the very tenuous nature of the very notion of economy. Change is more than four quarters for a dollar. That is all i know. Lets see. We have been living as destroyers of the planet earth for the four decades or so that i am directly involved with. When i was in grade school the pollution debate was vibrant; as was the question of prison versus rehabilitation; as was the whole notion of health care. Nothing ever moved. The clean air act that has the bite of a 80 year old in a coma was passed. Well hey yah we got gay rights and women's rights and civil rights and all that but the basic nature of the beast only got worse and worse.
Big block stores replaced enterpreneurs. K Mart and McD's became de rigeur across the land. Then came technology. The microchip did not measure our individual carbon foot print and offer suggestions to better maintain the earth. That would be ludicrous. It helped the banks take your money, helped turn the info media product pumping machine we live in go live 24 hour 7 day a week. So that the down time that came at the close of the business day, and the few hours of peace one expected, was gone.
Anyway, so all this has led me to be a lot more comfortable with FAILING at the whole game. I don't have the house and the garage and the 401 K but i got my time. I don't have the kids to have the legacy. So I am free to love all the kids that the others have and not have to be Slave Parent. What I have is the experience of owning my time. So I wield the skills that go with--what those that were corralled by their one and a half job lifestyles don't have. I know how to turn fifty cents into that dollar that i need. So, this is a time of relative well being for me.
I am a writer. I have found writing workshops have been great. Simply wonderful. I remember i took one last September at Gothams. It was the old boring tired structure. There was the teacher at the head of the class and we listened to why plot was so important. We were all assumed straight. There was the wonderful re-introduction of Bananafish by J.D.Salinger into my life. I'm sure that some good would have come of it. But it was a bore.
Luckily I found the Writer's Room at the LGBT center. With simple writing and sharing in an absolutely non aggressive round table of peers the muses woke back up. It was also lovely to be understood as queer a priori. There was no weirdness as to oh so you are like that. (Yes. That is still an issue. My group at Gotham could have been from the suburbs of Scranton circa 1979 in terms of their heterocentrism.)
The question of queerness as it relates to depression is important as well. While it has been integrated into popular culture on an individual level it is still an issue. Therefore when one is queer then one must be truly okay with it before being able to get out of the depression ditch. That in my case was outwardly never an issue. I have been pretty "out" all my life. However to be back in a truly gay friendly environment, and a queer writing group gave me that much more power to create my new world economy and society. Also more hidden and less defined was my essential polyamorous self. I am not monogomous in a monogomous world. I am a writer in a world where murky workings toward nebulous goals is generally frowned upon.
This nation is oil dependent still after all the information that tells us that there are better ways. We claim to be new and modern and we still cling to outdated modes of everything from transportation to civic decision making.
One unexpected wonderful thing from writing with queers is to see the vastness of our community, the butches and femmes; the FTMs and MTFs and the gender fluid; and the radicals and the mainstream social climbers; the queers of all cultures and colors and languages. Its like seeing the rainbow up close. Ah, this is who we are. And now I am even beginning to include some truly open minded straights as queer deemed by poonam. QDP. Then there are the straight queers that want the nucleus family and their version of the fairytale Disney and Madison Avenue and Mother Goose's fantasy life.
Writing is not about saying what you need to say. Thats a dump. Its about serving it up so others can sip or sup and feed their ownselves. It is about working it out with detail and form so insights that will surprise even the writer can emerge. Writing is an act of giving of your self, flesh and spirit. You need to find people that dig the taste of your language and rock to the beat of your blood. You need to see people actually grow happier and healthier having had read you.

This is the end of this blog. If I haven't met all expectations, I humbly ask that you fill in the blanks as you best see fit. Poonam Srivastava 9:54 AM November 27 2009, revisited April 21st 2011.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Head Shots and Jeans In My Pockets

November 17th 2009

I am writing from my bed at 8:50 in the morning.

That is a professional shot of me you see. My country tis of dreams. I answered a call for actors and went through an audition.

Poonam needs money. She has a two bedroom. She is out of money.

Today i was gonna go to the MAN. the goverenMAN to see if i can get food stamps.

What i got is head shots and jeans. The jeans are for sale on ebay. Or will be today i hope. OUCH.

Its nine am and i got to go do that. DAMN. I'll go tomorrow.

I live on dreams. I had a dream last night that my legs were getting longer. Their lengthn got me stuff. I tried to get with this girl and she needed me to have longer legs.

I had this huge talk on sexuality and polyamory (Bevbev if you are reading this then please hon, know that i am seeing some women and i'm gonna talk about that now so don't go on if you are not ready) with ID. ID is someone i never would have guessed I'd have more than a drunken roll in the hay, or field rather. It all got started when I laid on some heavy metal. Literally. I was walking on the west side hway. I was hanging with ID just to companionably pass a Sunday. The ol' feet started their siren song of Charcot Marie Tooth and I needed to stop and get them up. (They sing horrible.)
So we found a black metal loading dock and had a lie down and watched the clouds.
The conversation flowed. There was laughing.
I had just told the holder of the hippo, Hippogirl, I would not see her again. I had not had sex in two weeks. Some cubbyhole one nighter after hippo girl. Man, i still think of hippo girl. I mean I might have burned that bridge. I get angry though. I mean and that anger is kinda okay cuz it shows me that i am in the wrong place. Hippo girl was a fine piece of marathon running woman. She had super long hair. Right off the bat though she talked the butch femme topic. So its just as well.

So what about the head shots and the jeeeans. i got the heead shots taken for this actor's rep company and need to print out the narrowed two choices/ two of a hundred. Ship them to the guyssand hpe for paid wrok.
i figure if i don't get rich at least i might pay some bills and meet some cool folks.
speaking of which bina is doing a notheer play.
the jeaens i bought 125 jeeans. they are Rag and Bone. apparently super expensivee and i can sell them on ebay for a fraction of what they would be in stores.
I've been writing for an hour.

love and love and love to y'all.

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

Change 2009, Shit happens when you follow your heart.

I left Oswego and my house and partner, Beverly in July 2008.

For one month I floated between my friends Jade and Chavisa. Then after two temporary situations of house/cat sitting and sublet for August and September I found my own space in a loft in Brooklyn.

I went to the Center and met Bryce. I went back to the center and met Serena and Tara. Sahar contacted me from poly=nyc dot com.  

The others came and went. Lisa. and Lisa. and Tara. and Simmy. and Aneesha. 

My friends have all been retrieved: Chavisa, Jade, Stephanie, Tamra.
New ones have been made, Jordan.

The kids came and went, Kofi and Zo. Perhaps  will see them soon again.
The others came back into my life, Shaheen, Sonny, Sachal, Molly. Gaurav and Ami and Sonya. Now Steven my nephew will also be back.

I put myself out there.
I resumed therapy.
I helped Bina Sharif put on a play.
I worked and earned money.
Now I am writing and following my own inner clock.

So much has changed. Not the least of it being that Bevbev and I are talking, really talking again.

In the past two weeks I kissed two women who I enjoyed kissing.

On February 11th i go to rome for four days with Serena.

This Friday I'm off to Boston to meet Afsaneh, Taraneh's sister. 

I am writing.
I've got Bina Sharif a blog where my writing will be featured.
My articles and poem are in
My short stories are being born and the novel grows inside my head.

Things are manifesting. This entry is an introduction for you. I need to share. 

These are the first quick thoughts. The first inklings.

And these broad strokes will be filled in, shadowed, nuanced, extrapolated and explored. I promise.

It is possible to be the change you want to see in the world. It's never too late to become the person you want to be.

Redo. This from earlier posts on a deleted blog.

update on the reiki symposium and this blog

The Martin Luther King Day REIKI Symposium at the open center was Fabulous.
i learned so much and met so many wonderful people. i cannot begin to share the extent of my joy, well okay i guess i am doing that huh. it was grrrrrreat. there was aromatherapy and qi gung and candling. that last really caught my attention and was a surprise tome. i would never have thought i would be so taken with it. but mostly it was sharing the energy with others from other traditions of reiki.
Well, you know the REIKI symposium waas responsible for my starting this blog. and because of this blog at least one old friend has found me again, Jenn. and that is wonderful. but really i spend more blog time on my MY FRIENDS space on my space. and i am not sure what to do with this blog. should i keep it up. i hardly come here.
it is the name of my business, where as the other one well....... let's just say my mind was elsewhere...........


what do we think.

let's let it go and let g-d.

gtk. good to know.

that is my phrase. invented in june 2006. publish widely please.
Posted by poonam srivastava at 8:41 PM 0 comments

new NESS

THERE are things that are new this week of thanks givign.

last night i dreamt of four or five grown men that were acting like fourteen year olds.

i have two fourteen year olds active in my life. and one not so active. sir andrew is beverly's grandson, born in 1992. he gets belly aches when he is upset. then there is shaheen who is less present than he used to be. i guess 'present' is a better word than 'active'. let's substitute, shall we. good. shaheen is my half sister, pramilla's, son. i don't like pramilla.

you can read pramilla's book review, that i nei\ther agree with not that it says much, nor like on

so, the third only for purposes here by defined, is steven. he is my sister pratima's son. he is being raised by christian fundamentalists to be a hater in paris texas. k

let us all pray for him and them.

i am in full assurance that he will be all right and find his way back to my sister's loving arms. his mother is so torn up about losing him.


.all part of an ongoing book.


calvino italo.


read him.


and there's the venezuelan classical musicians and composers. wow. and then sanjay mishra. am i in some kind of stream?

i would sting so. were i a stinger. or hum a few bars.

but here i am being a bit silly and off key.

well. its early on tues. adn all the tickets for the trains to syracuse from nyc are reserved. hah.

so jade and chavisa who have kept me twiddling my phone's cordless wires around corlessness llye

what are we gonna do now?

wait till 5am.

no, call the 800 number, talk to a human, john, talk to a human john, named john i mean a nd get the DL down low slow down now. taking notes......

the computers go up with new info at 5 am.

how many folks has he shared this info with?

well, how many folks actually get up at 5 am?


humming now, bird.

que sera, baby.

newness, oldness tweaked... perhaps you can tell i am listening to jazz.

well, i am off to do my attunement and start the other part of my day.

love to all you who may stumble or stray across these spaces.............

( 98 6666 7''''[[[]]]]]]]]] !@# ????<> )


Posted by poonam srivastava at 7:30 AM 0 comments
Labels: newness
good morning blog morning. Reiki On.

Hello world,
its me
blogging on
reiki ing on in cy ber space.

i come to you grace a reiki.

I am going to be in NYC on january 15th 2007 for the first ever open center reiki consortium. that is not what they are calling it. they are calling it "Ist Annual Reiki Symposium at the NY Open Center".

All i wanted to do was post a "good job" comment on the site. and me voila. a blogger. well, its about time.

REiki Centrale is actually my business, begun just last month. with cards, business and bracelets sold at a crafts fair in Scriba, ny. i kid you not. and

i am all about reiki

and about my spiritual growth.

this includes my lover and my home.

and all this opening in november seems appropriate somehow.

well, now there is this open house my lover and i are doing on BLACK FRIDAY. we are serving chili. veg adn turkey. adn people can drop in (byob). and its a way that a lot of folks can actually see the reiki room in the house. You walk through it to come in. and also its just fun. to have people over. adn if no one comes chili keeps forever.

my lover's name is beverly and i do love her. and my name is poonam and she does love me. we have been together since 2005 when we met at michigan women's music festival. the woman at the entrance said, "some women meet their life partners here." i gave that little thought. i just wanted a little relief from the severe isolation and depression i had been feeling. well, lemme tell you all, it was a party in the real sense of the word. and right at the end i had a final dance with beverly. we lived 3 hours apart for 8 months. a lesbian record. and then i moved up closer. and then i just moved in.

just ate dinner. cookd a cabbage head, red, steamed it whole. fun. chewy. ah, but of course that is not all. made some chicken curry with spinach and added some left over mustard greens. good. adn brown rice. lovely. light. not heavy like in indian restaurants.

i am all about good food
not just indian food or ethnic any kind of food, but organic real local produce that someone cared about
and that nourishes me and more than me. some family. not simply filling me up so i can perform my fill in role in the color in photos of modernity. let me not get started.

want to read Kirin Desai's book. Inheritance of Loss. i like her mom's writing, Anita Desai. I ho[pe they will like my book when it comes out.

wrote a review of Moonlight on the Ganga. by claire krulikowski.

then read TRAIN TO PAKISTAN by Kushwant Singh. man. wahat a book. yaar i tell you that shit is powerful. i seriously was off my game for days.
even could not make love to beverly one night i was so sad.

its the best novel on partition i have read so far.

read my reviews on

wow. i wonder if i will ever come back to this blog and write again?


if i do i hope there will be word from someone else.

dunno how that would work.

am all new you see.

therefore the happy in the title line.

reiki on dear ones.

poonam srivastava