The Shreyas Residency.
So I’m really quite unsure what day to call this now. Day two, or Day three, or…
It’s all a little confusing and I could accept this fun disregard of the construct time, but I’m mildly too stubborn for that.
Back in the States, the time is currently 1:29 am on Friday.
Here in Bangalore it’s 10:59 am on Friday.
So I suppose I’ve spent most of what you might call “Day 2” on the flight from Paris to Bangalore, and today would be “Day Three.”
This logic on paper looks elementary, but is something quite difficult to understand in concern with the jet-lag, the inability to process time on a plane, the time traveling, and the intense dosa and idils (little fermented rice cakes, that soak up any spilled coconut chutney with moderate to easy ease, that might have found it’s way outside of the little metal bowl, in which the chutney is served) I had for breakfast with Steve-ji this morning; currently making an attempt to lure me back into sleep (but I will prevail… perhaps after a quick nap.)
The next palate of the Mysore2k16AnnArbor crew arrives this evening at the airport in Banglaore, around 7:50pm local time, which means we’ll see them around 9:50 once they make it through the airport and the rather fun ride from the airport to our hotel. We should be receiving John and Tristan, with most everyone else arriving deep into the night, anywhere between midnight and 3am.
Steve and I (Myself more so, as I don’t have a long personal history of eating Indian food. The first time I ever ate Indian food was at Cardamom on the north side of Ann Arbor (check it out – seriously awesome stuff) just two years ago — Steve, with this being his 13th trip to India, a practicing Hindu steeped in the culture, and a down-right fantastic cook of Indian food, has the upper-hand on handling spice on spice on spice on spice.) for dinner had only curd rice (with bits of mint and raisins, a recipe idea for ya), butter naan, and a mango “milkshake” (so so very close to being a lassi, but we believe they meant that it’s made with ice-ream, rather than yoghurt).
Essentially: a kids meal.
Our stomachs (mostly mine, I’d imagine) needed some gentle care, and mild cuddling with something that’s a bit more tender than a thali plate.
By dinner, the staff all knew us; we’re easy to recognize. And they of course were quite interested, as they were kind of crowded in the closest corner of the room gossiping about Steve and I, in our conversation about a discussion on the white-savoir complex (I want to be aware I’m here to learn) and dear friends Nicole Patrick and Lena Oren and their rockin’, award-winning collaboration, celebrating inter-departmental (not just between the two persons and their respected art forms: dance and music, but a singular percussion/jazz/performing arts & technology/storyteller person, with a dancer/singer/storyteller person) fusion and exploration that really is quite forward thinking within the eyes of the academic music scene, where sometimes such intersectionality can scare those who don’t know how to process such progress.
It’s really quite the amusing short story: two gringos in a small restaurant, by themselves with 11 of their closest gossip-loving family members in the corner, eating a kids meal to calm the stomach from the previous two meals.
Before I leave for the evening, I wanted to address a few things about my writing-style and myself for those who are all very perplexed by the drifting of thought, drifting of good punctuation, and random bits of poetry thrown in.
I really quite enjoy writing. I also just got back from the Bear River Writer’s Conference held by the University of Michigan in the summer, where I made friends will all sorts of poets, fiction-writers, nature writers, memoirists – and so these writings for the next four weeks are an attempt to not only report on our happenings, but to have fun with the craft of writing. It’s all fun stuff, promise!
I know a poem about Antarctica seems a bit off for a trip to Paris, to Banglaore, to Mysore, but (just to add a bit of context not to throw anyone off) I was watching the documentary film: Antartica, A Year on Ice, on the first plane ride, and just felt the need to write this poem, with all of it’s various contexts surrounding. I might have a few more of poems to share, but no worries! I will be reporting on our whereabouts, especially once the program really gets hoppin!
With a Settling Stomach,