windthread

i do this.  rush to the book shelf to find maybe a sentence or two sentences, maybe that i need in the moment.  this morning it was from The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy

and i found the two sentences i needed, but they were right next to many sentences that immediately filled me with images of you and your tent and the young men hesitating to ask for meat.  so, here:

"In the broad, covered corridor…the colonnaded kuthambalam abutting the heart of the temple where the Blue God lived with his flute, the drummers drummed and the dancers danced, their colors turning slowly in the night.  Rahel sat down cross-legged, resting her back against the roundness of a white pillar.  A tall canister of coconut oil gleamed in the flickering light of the brass lamp.  The oil replenished the light.  The light lit the tin.

It didn't matter that the story had begun, because kathakali discovered long ago that the secret of the Great Stories is that they             have     no secrets.  The Great Stories are the ones you have heard and want to hear again.  The ones you can enter anywhere and inhabit comfortably.  They don't deceive you with thrills and trick endings.  They don't surprise you with the unforseen.  They are as familiar as the house you live in.  Or the smell of your lover's skin.  You know how they end, yet you listen as though you don't.  In the way that although you know that one day you will die, you live as though you won't.  In the Great Stories you know who lives, who dies, who finds love, who doesn't and yet you want to know again.    That       is their mystery and their magic.

To the Kathakali Man these stories are his children and his childhood.  He has grown up within them.  They are the house he was raised in, the meadows he played in.  They are his windows and his way of seeing.  So when he tells a story, he handles it as he would a child of his own.  He teases it.  He punishes it  He sends it up like a bubble.  He wrestles it to the ground and lets it go again.  He laughs at it because he loves it.  He can fly you across whole worlds in minutes, he can stop for hours to examine a wilting leaf.  Or play with a sleeping monkey's tail.  He can turn effortlessly from the carnage of war into the felicity of a woman washing her hair in a mountain stream.  From the crafty ebullience of a rakshasa with a new idea into a gossipy Malayali with a scandal to spread.  From the sensuousness of a woman with a baby at her breat into the seductive mischief of Krishna's smile.  He can reveal  the nugget of sorrow that happiness contans.  The hidden fish of shame in a sea of glory.

He tells stories of the gods, but is yarn is spun from the ungodly, human heart."

happy the biggest holiday of the year in Greece, Manya……xoxoxoxo ad infinitum