Not ready to talk

Grief is a complicated, hydra-headed beast.

Boo

(this happened in 2015 I think but I can't remember if I ever shared it here)

Life in random snippets:

"I was walking in downtown Chicago to the train station with a friend when a (drunk and belligerent seeming) man yelled at me: 'Are you Asian or Indian?' (Umm seriously?)

He then went on to yell: teach your people to fucking tip better, you fucking Indians blah blah. (But but but I never took responsibility for all billion people - but racial slurs don't work that way I suppose? So I'll start offering lessons then?)

Even as we walked away, this kind of went on with him yelling. There wasn't any point engaging with him, even though it would have been nice to have an honest conversation (I can't even imagine the frustration of being a min wage worker, dependent on tips, but even so...)

I was pretty calm then but felt kind of shaken on the ride home. This is perhaps the only such experience I have had in Chicago and isn't reflective at all of my time here. But it sort of reminded me of the difference between a slur and stereotype and also why every once in a while, I feel uncomfortable in my own (brown Indian) skin."

You are tired by e.e. cummings

You are tired,

(I think)

Of the always puzzle of living and doing;

And so am I.

Come with me, then,

And we'll leave it far and far away—

(Only you and I, understand!)

You have played,

(I think)

And broke the toys you were fondest of,

And are a little tired now;

Tired of things that break, and—

Just tired.

So am I.

But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,

And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart—

Open to me!

For I will show you the places Nobody knows,

And, if you like,

The perfect places of Sleep.

Ah, come with me!

I'll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,

That floats forever and a day;

I'll sing you the jacinth song

Of the probable stars;

I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,

Until I find the Only Flower,

Which shall keep (I think) your little heart

While the moon comes out of the sea.

e.e. cummings