I started making this list on my Blackberry soon after I had read my friend lucas green's list over at his wonderful new blog "Porous Borders" (now used for secret snacking in the pits of Kapitalism), and then Elizabeth went ahead and tagged me with this meme, so I couldn't put off post this any longer...

[1] I love re-reading Nazim Hikmet's "Things I Didn't Know I Loved" once every few months - a brilliant list poem hath never been made than this one

[2] I love how vistas curve away from sight when one is traveling by train - in Italy last year this time, a trip between La Speiza and Vernazza, the blue Mediterranean appearing and disappearing as the cliff hugging train snaked through tunnels - like watching water elide into water on a windowpane on a rainy day

[3] I love Bach's Cello Suites - all of them, the stark punch-in-the-gut simplicity of them - Bach's Herr Jesu must exist in some form or fashion for these suites exist

[4] I love revisiting old letters (and post late 90s, emails) written by younger selves - sleeves of time that now smell like the paws of a faithful dog - useful to “feast on your life"

[5] I love inscriptions, notes, lists, and sometimes even poems one finds in used books - the scat of things said in place of something that always remains unsayable

[6] I love light in autumn, the way distances open again after a long summer. And I love to "wander along the boulevards, up and down, restlessly, while the dry leaves are blowing"

[7] I love reading interconnected novels set in the fictional towns - R.K. Narayan's Malgudi and Wendell Berry's Port William being two notable examples – a nomadic existence’s desire for fixity I suppose

To a watchful moon, and the blood of first azaleas after sudden snow in April, and sleep in the lighted darkness between her breasts among the scent of green lemons. No dreams except those of children lost among dreaming of other older nights, no home either - just the silence of his eyes and deep breathing that she is a witness to, and this waiting for words that he doesn't say, this man, strange and unknown, sometimes even in the tenderest of speech.

Voice's shadow that needs rescuing from The gang-press of too many voices All intent on listening to themselves -

This is always the case, the din In the head, on its wheel , persistent Like a hamster - to pay attention is

not too difficult - except the occluded solidity called the Self that keeps coming in the way - the all I that

Like a thunderstorm keeps flash-flooding The more darker lava-like substance known as the Soul into voice's shadows.