IN THE HOT UNCONSCIOUS
I’m in Jamshedpur. For a little while. Much hasn’t changed and I’m not surprised. Yesterday as I sat listening, my head etched between the front seats, my eyes followed my father’s hands as he pointed to things that had changed between the eons of my being gone and momentarily coming back. For example, the road’s much broader in the place where I once got hit from behind.
I pace around the house thinking of that word. Uhkimilitization? Acclimatization. Yes. I need that. Very much. It’s so humid it’s getting difficult to breathe. It’s difficult to imagine I once lived here. My lungs, they feel different.
The floor is cold. The weather, hot. It might rain.
And rain might bring back memories. Memories that transcend time and space and exist in the realm of the surreal. In the hot unconscious. It is possible, even easy, to see change in the broader scheme of things but when one is gone for too long, changes cease to matter and the soul of the substance manifests; resurfaces bringing back not memories but a vague reassurance.
It’s like knowing someone – almost too much. All curves and bends and folds of their divine mortal bodies. And then that person gets a haircut and expects you to see the change and you simply fail to do.
Some things, they don’t change.