Homesickness

انتهایی برای نوشتن از دلتنگی وجود نداره، اما هربار که میام بنویسم توی همین اتاقم، دور از همون آدما، با همون ترسا. هرروز کتاب‌ها و متن‌های کمتری میخونم، هرروز خالی‌تر و بی‌تفاوت‌تر میشم- بی‌تفاوت به خودم. اینطوری هیچ چیز تازه‌ای ندارم برای گفتن. تا برای آدم‌ها روایت نکنم، تا زندگیم از توی سرم بیرون نیاد و تا حالم با خودم خوب نشه نمیتونم چیزی بنویسم و این هرروز بیشتر از روز قبل اذیتم میکنه.

سنگینی‌ای توی وجودم هست که سطرهای آخر این شعر با دقت خوبی توضیحش میدن.

"You presented me with two scarabs,

hieroglyphs etched on their lapis-lizuli backs,

from the gift-shop of the British Museum.

It's for good luck, you said.

I survey pieces, their sacredness

treasured in the hollow of my palm,

imagine them alive, pushing the setting sun

along the sky, entreating my heart to be pure and light.

They nestle beside a coral stone and a pearl

framed in rings of beaten gold on my fingers,

charms given by my family to protect me from evil.

I find the Egyptian scarab couple their own home

away from the crowded open-house of my Indian gods,

transforming each corner of my living room

with gifts of fetishes from around the world.

Two Chinese cats guard my speculative angle of vision.

Even Ganesha travels with me in my handbag

to help me overcome obstacles in my adopted homeland.

The seven gods of luck from Japan smile on

as you eye my marble turtle god with its fine chiselled look,

its beady eyes, hand-crafted, appraising your secret nook-

leaving us with the legacy of an understanding-

the knowledge of what it means

to carry a whole household in oneself,

to be so perfectly self-contained, poised

at the centre of all manner of creatures unsheltered."