Elder Sibling, I was a Child

I was a rebellious little child

I was a mature youngster back in the day

I was a darling sweetheart thang that broke many a lacking heart

I am a grown dandelion

Now I wonder where I went, I love myself, I did.

Curls it her crazy hair, lost a moment to sink

I was a chillax partner there, I still would love to

I was a failing business woman, 

a fumbling server, a darling chef, 

a cunning navigator of local lands, shortcuts and coordination of the most routine of tasks I was

I was a sailor when I lost at sea, 

I found the sun rose on the other side of the Ganga

I made many stories sink there like a stone. 

I was a mother once, before I had no children. 

I was a rapist once, a slut, a slither in the jingling dark, no child could find me there

I was

A responsive lover once I was, 

responsive to cunning lies to deviousness

Responsible for a man bigger than what he said was, 

Was bigger than he really was, 

I was a loving lover was

Still am the lover I once was, better than I was before

I want love, so I am not free, 

Would I say no if yes to me? 

I was a loyal listener once, 

but silence frosted over the words 

and now I see what can be done, 

as hand doth speak that holds a gun, 

I am not afraid, I fear, 

I fly I flow, I carry dear

All the lessons I forget, I hold with me

once dry now wet

I am what I was, I am never again, 

a change, I am the current state

I be the young the old the aged

Mother son 

betrothed and bathed

for family's finding new her mother

Brother stands like pillar now, 

never to leave I was a fire. 

Anticipating Reality

A photo posted by Priyanka Rao (@priyankalyn) on Jul 20, 2015 at 1:52pm PDT

Pick a number
One by one until there is a string of rosary beads
To account for the times you have strayed from the path
Of affectionate carelessness.

Im a heartbeating whole of another's life,
mothers waist round my own slight
Knowledge of a sure and stable path
A path which leads to the pleasance of age
In accepting the stumblings of its own ragged feet, high heels have no place any longer.

I would apologize for the things I have said and done but in the end
Counting crows is sadder than

My own Welsh life. A toothache has been hurting me here,
A nail scratch on my blue veined wrist and intentional scar of the desperation.
I will tell you there is no reason to fear. I tell you there is no reason to season your sorrows with reason.

If ever a fear was worth forgetting it was the fear of not forgetting the way he touched your hair

You're there.
A moment from the thoughtlessness. A moment away from losing reason.
A slice away from the crack in the door.
The light shines through. You're heaven is there

Heartbreaking experience of making new friends

Yesterday I meditate on the rhythm of the swelling waves upon the low tide of the Weser river.  I watch perched upon the granite high wall of the Weserburg.  The fishman smirk.

Today I study intently my German grammar book, puzzling over the logic of the four German grammatical cases intending to sort through.

Tonight I drink wine glass after glass and glass as our dinner party swells to 20 so people and I simply wander convo to convo in search of satisfaction.

Twenty fascinating people, a tumult of good food and sensual accuity.
I find HowLisa combined with wine results in the confessions of true family life in a semi-family home, the Wohngemeinschaft.

Tarika wishes to share her summer, attempts to live with a boyfriend, a man and still be a person on one's own.  The theme of the summer.
Papa calls.
And American speaks to me.
A chilean with the Zealand accent and that tone of ease, a traveller.
A school student girl that is bicultural and at a party with her father until 1am.
A time to take them all to the bar and then return to our house guests alone all tough in the dark.

Good night.
Call me social, but let me sleep alone. Let me write in peace, and you can read.

Read that I am falling apart and that each confession is a new friendship, and the growing silence in my heart is actually the crecimiento of the new tree growing there- the return of my own silence,
that sound you can consider to by the story of my own soul.

I am.

Priyanka
31st July 2015

Ladies & Gentlemen & the rest of us

A blog is no joke they claim because it's public.  Not something you can just pull off, writing to yourself whatever crap you want.

Perhaps a masculine thing to say. Both men claim this, one 40+ the other under 20 sitting on either side of me.

Don't over edit my highschool teacher said.  A blog is not a novel.  It's not over composed.  Fresh and honest, it should be born of the present moment, not edited down to hardboiled fact.

Pennebacker has something else to say- writing therapy, the power of well-directed journaling for your self has the ability to transform cyclicly dangerous thought patterns into helpful reflection and redirection almost as if it were a form of meditation.  Is meditation a publishable act? An act beneficial to the public?

I don't blog because I haven't in years, or perhaps because I am afraid of the stage to say what I really think, the limelight I have lost to years of indecency- a BA degree I call my own.

Perhaps I don't blog because of the increased shame of falsity at large.  In my journal it is a bare-faced rant, with no audience but the ever-echoing universe I was born to.  In silence.

The internet, rather full of creepers and curious and discontent overexcited young and old variously-opinionated crowds I am prone to imagine, not only imagine, but to speak to, in increasingly delusional tones of conviction.

Forget the audience, the unseen crowd which calls forth falsity along with forthrightness. I speak for myself, and yet I bear to the world and confess I do have an audience in mind.  You my friend, are a person, read english, and hence a part of the current current of global affairs which sweep the mild, the meek and the shapers of tomorrow in one fell swoop of the wrathful Leela which proceeds, life.
Good luck following. 

Floating Daughter Away, a farewell to California

This evening on the beach, lying floating on the ocean, just beyond the waves, with the whole blue sky on my nose and the sun's golden warmth drifting somewhere north east of my closed eyelids, as I floated like a drifting maple leaf upon the ocean feeling the whole world tip and swerve against you. I lost direction and was aware of the tingling feeling of being weightless in space, or turning over in bed before the world re-hardens and re-positions itself around you.

The waves jerk you slightly and the horizon dividing place between water and air, is reestablished and still you open, breathing up, out, up, out, arms open wide, legs relaxed, letting go. Weightless is worth it. And talking to you God in the solid silence of the muffling ocean, so that every world reverberates soundly in my own ears, travels across my own head, like talking into my headphones and yet with nothing out there but the sea, the sky, God to record.
Present in that spaceless moment. Across the cold numb but normal sea, past the docks and honking sea-lions, the pier and the ships and mountains and out there is eventually the people of Hawaii, and the land of Japan.

And luckily for some reason, this time I am going the opposite direction= back across the United States, the Atlantic Sea, and to England, Great Britain, over the channel and to Germany. To all sort of new times and adventures. To business to academics. Responsibility.
Off across the cold sea to which my body can adapt so easily. Maybe a little fat is good - to keepafloat, and keep off the shivers.  To innocence as I know I could be taken anywhere.  It is in the hands of the Lord, and spirit of the human pioneer, the glue that keeps it all together. And yet take me away from the warm embrace of my mother who holds me and smiles and cuddles at night and knows exactly when I feel bad. Away.

And maybe a time will come when I will be close to her again because I miss her. I've always hated growing up...for that? But not being able to grow up to be that awesome kid inside at heart, the part that shines.  TXT to MOM: 12:05 am: I love you. They say you're always a kid to your mom. Hopefully I will never be anything else."  www Mom- Yet even still this life is so alone. I will be happy living it- with friends like you. God. And love. And spirit. And soul. There is a long way to swim and float and dive. ~ I am a dreamer.  PS. the Archer talks in his sleep! :) Awwwkay.