And now, the longest I’ve written in a while. It’s about my compost pile. My compost pile had moved to a place closer to the back of my mind a long time ago. There are two flights of stairs now between the compost pots and our balcony. Getting lazy just happened. Not to be read as “I stopped composting”. Oh, I kept on with it, just that I slowly went about disregarding the ground-rules one by one. I still remember the first time I began composting. The excitement; the careful balancing of Carbon and Nitrogen, C and N always in caps, seeing them everywhere I looked, like newfound words. The hoard of dried leaves I collected. Checking if the moisture content is as it should be – like a squeezed-out sponge. Worrying if the pile does not heat up right. Turning the pile every few days. And waiting for the smell of the woods when it is done. Mmmm…
That went to “It’s happening anyway”. Much like the attention one would devote to a train that arrives exactly at the time it is supposed to arrive. No gushing over its arrival, no mulling over, relishing or lingeringly beautiful lines written about it. Just an eight syllable thought alloted and dismissed.
I remember looking at all the dried leaf piles that I could collect from earlier this February, mentally registering them wherever I went. The nearby parks, in a nearby street under an old abandoned car, the police park near Bowring Club, in Cubbon park and even at the workplace. So convenient. Now, why didn’t i notice that earlier. And yet I did nothing about it. It was continuing to compost. It wasn’t smelling. It was all going pretty fine. Maybe they laid the ground rules too strict, I said to myself. I stopped sieving out the compost and just tell it be the carbon for the fresh kitchen waste I kept stirring in every week or so. So logical.
Nothings wrong. It worked. Just that I find myself with too many tiny bugs. They apparently are the ones that work in a cold compost pile. The pile is still fine, I don’t have any unsavory creatures. Some roaches that I need to get rid of. And two more pots to clean and start fresh all over again. That would amount to a few more hours, squatting by its side and sieving out the compost and getting back to the ground rules. Or in the words of my activity tracker some 1400 steps to be taken and a kilometre or so to be walked. I’d put it on while sieving pot I of the pile earlier this morning just to keep track of time.
Moral of the story. The universe never tires of conspiring to bundle up new lessons for you to learn. Even it’s from a cold compost pile. Also, never conveniently avoid anything fundamental to a process. Especially if the process is a miniature adaption of what generally happens in the universe, simulated in three terracotta pots rather comically placed one on top of the other, in your backyard, balcony or wherever you can keep it safe from the rain. So long.
It was a day that reeked of high ceilinged rooms and whirring old fans, and not a buzz from even a fly to escape it. Maybe why fragmented thoughts of a perfect world, out of seemingly nowhere, thronged in my head. A rabble of sorts. A blissfully senseless concoction of voices, colors, cultures, languages, opinions, beliefs, faiths and every other sound that is familiar and is of this universe.
The perfect world as a phantasmagoric quilt. A burst of human existence. Replete with tongue-in-cheek remarks, jibes, praise, love, hatred, anger and everything else we know of. Yet somehow in harmony.
Okay, said the universe. But I was here a long time ago. And my perfect world exists irrespective of you.
So a speeding car
the corner of the eye
and heads straight
like a ‘Just do it’ stroke
In searing acidic tones
the breath out of me.
We don’t speak
the mind and I
for the next few minutes.
but the gut’s
to being a gut.
you take me back to old times
and cats with playful eyes!