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Sin Addiction

Don’t I look like all the sins you’re going to commit tonight? I felt it too. Because feeling flows through me the way water runs through the planet, within it, over it, above it and into every creature that lives on it. It feels good to dissolve. It feels peaceful to let go and drown in cool darkness. Words like ’empath’ and ‘boundaries’and ‘toxic patterns’ just flow into sound & light and are swallowed up in the darkness that we are.

Who ever told you that the quest for love would be easy? I knew it wasn’t easy, you say, I just didn’t expect it to be so unpredictable. But how could you think it to be otherwise? Love is the subject of most songs and stories and poems told across the human race and since when did we ever entertain each other by being predictable? It’s an act of rebellion to care. Love is an assertion of life.

But I’ll also say, let go when it feels like self-loathing. “It’s not supposed to be so hard” people say when they mean you’re not worth putting in the effort, you are not worth enduring the agony of confusion for. That is not the time to persist, to prove your commitment. All that is, is pouring your precious self into an endless session of validation. Let go of anyone who can’t make time or space or effort for you because the truth is they won’t.

You are married to a tale. You fell in love with stories because they were bigger than you and you liked to find your place inside them. Why try to shrink that story to fit your hands and your imagination? Don’t hold your breath. Don’t hoard your breaths. Don’t get stuck on the ideas you pinned on the pages of your mind, fearing that your self will be lost if you look away. Feel. Feel. Feel. Your story is being created as you live it, not as you imagine it.

Love is a part of it. It always has been and will always be, even if it doesn’t look the way fairytales and romcoms narrate it. It’s not a sin to look. But it is a sin to breathe and not live.

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SIN ADDICTION Don't I look like all the sins you're going to commit tonight? I felt it too. Because feeling flows through me the way water runs through the planet, within it, over it, above it and into every creature that lives on it. It feels good to dissolve. It feels peaceful to let go and drown in cool darkness. Words like 'empath' and 'boundaries'and 'toxic patterns' just flow into sound & light and are swallowed up in the darkness that we are. Who ever told you that the quest for love would be easy? I knew it wasn't easy, you say, I just didn't expect it to be so unpredictable. But how could you think it to be otherwise? Love is the subject of most songs and stories and poems told across the human race and since when did we ever entertain each other by being predictable? It's an act of rebellion to care. Love is an assertion of life. But I'll also say, let go when it feels like self-loathing. "It's not supposed to be so hard" people say when they mean you're not worth putting in the effort, you are not worth enduring the agony of confusion for. That is not the time to persist, to prove your commitment. All that is, is pouring your precious self into an endless session of validation. Let go of anyone who can't make time or space or effort for you because the truth is they won't. You are married to a tale. You fell in love with stories because they were bigger than you and you liked to find your place inside them. Why try to shrink that story to fit your hands and your imagination? Don't hold your breath. Don't hoard your breaths. Don't get stuck on the ideas you pinned on the pages of your mind, fearing that your self will be lost if you look away. Feel. Feel. Feel. Your story is being created as you live it, not as you imagine it. Love is a part of it. It always has been and will always be, even if it doesn't look the way fairytales and romcoms narrate it. It's not a sin to look. But it is a sin to breathe and not live. 🎶: THIS MASQUERADE – The Carpenters #theideasmithy

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I Don’t Celebrate Halloween, Can I Leave?

I thought about him yesterday. Not the angry, violent, horrible monster that the later times have made me need to remember of him, but the early times. I had to. He’s the source material for my romantic imagination. And my imagination is the only thing that rescues me from the quagmire of emotions.

I am trying to remember how love used to be, how I used to love. I have a better understanding of the second, including the ways in which my unbounded affections become toxic for some people. This is the reality of it. It’s limiting to think of myself as bad or weak or love as a poisonous thing in total. Some things suit some people and they cause others to erupt in blisters or choke or turn into monsters. Who knows that better than an allergy-sufferer?

“I don’t think he ever actually liked me,”

I told a friend last week. Incredulous, he asked me, then why was he with you? I think (I reasoned as I spoke) that I fit a picture of what he thought he wanted – slightly older and dark skinned to annoy his family, bantery enough to feel like he was an intelligent guy, pedigreed to suit the Kolkata intellectual aesthetic and as a last consideration, packaged adequately well to not terribly annoy any lingering physical consideration. I scan myself mentally the way Hollywood films show men scanning women – body, background and messy human traits to be managed.

Some times this helps, being able to put myself inside what I think of, as that cruel, unforgiving, utterly unempathetic, uncaring eye of the person I loved. It helps me re-establish him as that person in my head.

But other days like yesterday, it’s harder. I must admit that most people do not look that deeply into another person, even people they claim to love. Men, least of all, given their boundless capacity for self-absorption and erasure of women. Men, especially in their twenties are not even required (by fashionable politics or by experiences with women like me) to think that much about why they chase who they chase.

Maybe there is some romance in that uncaring, naive, selfish, superficial glance. These adjectives are all things I’ve associated with romance, any way. Which completes my circle of thought, then. Do I want this? Did I ever? No.

Companionship seems to be a different thing but I keep getting pushed into the romance bazaar to look for it. I was looking for some cooling balm and I’m in a place hawking Halloween masks. That is a problem with the world and I have to find a way to get out of the wrong store. It is time to leave the monsters behind.

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What Women Want

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*If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram

The Love Adventure: Past Sell-By Date

What does falling in love feel like? I don’t remember. I am not talking about sex. I am not talking about the compromises people make for companionship. I’m not even talking about socially sanctioned labels and relationship statuses. I am talking about mind-knocked-over, nothing but this makes sense LOVE. I know I’ve glimpsed it, felt it, been touched by it, even if I am not the most gracious of hosts to love.

I have possibly been in love once, maybe twice in my life and even those I’m never entirely certain. I crush often and easily. I stopped agonising over these years ago. Lust became welcome in my mind sometime ago, making it easier for me to distinguish it from emotion. Attraction? That something plus the lust & compatibility checklists – I’ve been circling around it for years, in my writing, in my experiences and it’s a frenemy I’ve come to respect but not fear.

But these days, I find myself mildly disinterested. I have to work hard to feel attracted to someone. It’s not that there is a dearth of intelligent, nice-looking, friendly, accessible single men around. And by getting involved with someone years younger at 30, I opened up my mating pool to a wider group. But they all feel like more of the same. I’ve seen the moves, I’ve seen the fumbles, I’ve weathered the games, I’ve survived the mistakes. What’s new?

On the theory that attraction must precede love, I stoked up the dying embers for someone who’s been on the periphery of my life for years. It took effort to remind myself to communicate with him, to convince myself to overlook the sheer slowness that all of this takes. It’s not that he’s an unworthy person, as such matters go. Late 30s, intelligent, independent, adequately ‘my type’ as far on the lust meter, single and acquainted (maybe even friends) with me. We were talking about our work and the daily things that occupied us. I heard a note of something in his voice that I didn’t like.

“You don’t think this is a big deal, do you?”

I asked, my tone mild. But he’s wise enough to catch the challenge in my words, if he listens. If he listens. He said,

“I do think that a lot of the issues you’re stressing about are non-issues, yeah.”

And just like that the embers died.

I feel zero, zip, nada, NOTHING for him after that statement. Not anger. He doesn’t get it and he doesn’t have to. Not a burning desire to prove myself. Does it matter to me what he thinks? No, not much. I know relationships take effort. But should wanting to take that effort, itself be so much effort? Oh no.

It has been over a week since that conversation. I have barely thought about him since then. He texted a couple of times and I texted back. Both times we found excuses to not meet. Valid reasons but we’ve both lived long enough and bravely enough to overcome reason when we’ve wanted to. It seems neither of us wanted to, enough.

I guess I’m documenting this here just in case in the years that come up, I look back and wonder why I never considered him. I did. But there was nothing to take it forward. Damn. He was the best prospect in years and years.

Have I tired of men? Has my violently dramatic past burnt out any joy I can take in love, romance and attraction? I am not old enough to be at retirement age. But at the prime of my life when I enjoy a combination of experience-based confidence, hard-won privilege and good health, I feel so little inclination to use them in the humankind’s oldest endeavour – to seek love and companionship. Maybe there is a shelf life to one’s own capacity for wonder, a necessary component in love and attraction. Mine seems to have crossed its expiry date.

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*If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

The April Of My (Re)Alignment

This has been a lonely month. Housekeeping always is. I also didn’t get to speak to the people who keep me sane, often. Yes, I said that, the people who keep me sane. I can cope on my own but that doesn’t mean I want to or have to. Surviving alone is glorious when you’re 17; it’s just tedious at 37. I haven’t been able to speak to them because of summer. Summer seems to go hard on everyone around. It never did for me and I can’t explain it very well. I sweat and get headaches and heat strokes just like everyone else around. But I think, summer feels like the insides of me feel the rest of the time. A little too tight inside my skin, a few too many things inside my body, just one layer of rules too thick on my natural self. Summer feels like the universe and I am in alignment finally. But no one else seems to like it. I’m…well, I’m kind of used to it. It’s all I’ve ever been, after all.

~O~O~O~O~O~

I have been slower in my responses, though I did have a few flinch reactions. I’m learning flinches are necessary too. All in good measure, I guess. Not flinching allowed me to see that the guy I labelled ‘diltoot‘ was the epitome of a fuckboi. And once you’re spotted a fuckboi, the only thing to do is run, flinches be damned.

~O~O~O~O~O~

I like someone. Or I did. Well, I still do. Or maybe I do again. It goes in waves, which is probably not that odd for a Cancerian. When I’m feeling good, it’s wonderful. Through most of April, I have not. I’ve been starving. A lot of the times, I was able to ‘understand’ why that was happening. And at other times I didn’t and I tortured myself with the kind of thoughts that some of us get used to. At the moment, I’m in a nice-ish place.

I am learning that I can be me, independently, regardless of the love I feel for another person. This is a very big realisation. He told me once, very gently about the kind of dressing that he finds attractive on a woman. I had to discipline myself to not reach for that outfit in my wardrobe the very next time I met him. My style is such rich personal expression, carefully crafted and it is navigated through choppy seas of social disapproval. I am programmed to please men, especially a man I like. I squelched that urge several times. I relented only once and after much soul-searching, I decided to add my own personal dash to it with green lipstick (unconventional choice even on the edgiest of outfits and this wasn’t one). His reaction was wonderful. He was appreciative and respectfully. Which is not to say he worships me but his eyes seemed to be saying “Thank you for considering pleasing me.” Vulnerability invites more vulnerability. I’m learning that as well.

~O~O~O~O~O~

May seems a little gentler. Enough to let me catch my breath and acknowledge that this has been a tumultuous year to say the least. 2017, I don’t abhor you (that was 2012, what a wasteful, depraved year) but I am uneasily fearful of how powerfully you’ve uprooted my beliefs and kept me on my toes. Be kind, if you can.

As with any other time, I don’t know where this or I am heading. The future is a blind mystery. But I’m not playing Sherlock. All will be revealed in good time. And for now, I’m just glad for affection and love as I find it, even if doesn’t always look familiar.

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*If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

I’m Looking For Love But Not Really

I haven’t been my prolific self of the past decade, in 2016 and I intend to change that. It’s not that I haven’t been sharing. I’m realising that I am the kind of being that needs to share. It feels good to let it out, to bleed in the open air. It feels good to care, unabashedly. 2016 brought me the opportunity to do that in a space that used to be inhabited by fear – the stage. 2016 allowed me to reclaim it and make it a place of power and acceptance. So I think this blog will forgive me for not being as present.

The year ended well. I loved, I spoke, I lost, I won, I drifted, I grew. Everything taught me something. Nothing broke me. Several things healed me in surprising ways.

There were men and boys. There were almost affections and fleeting intimacies. There was even Tinder, that went away without any burn marks.

Somebody threw out a, “You’re looking for LOVE” at me in a way that made it seem like an insult, an accusation even. Was I? Am I? Yes, yes I am. But not in the way the world understands love. Love is not committment. Love is not relationship. Love is not even relating. Love is not companionship. Love is not sex. Love is not duty. Love is not family. Love is not friendship.

I am looking for love in the way I experienced it when I was 20. So engulfed by it, it took my breath away. So consumed by it, I ceased to exist, the object of my affection ceased to exist. All that was, was a universe clouding, blinding, covering everything else in wild rush of colour.

I am looking for love the way it swirled into my life, possibly around the time I turned 16, though I’ll never really know, it was so insiduous. Love that curled its way into my being and wore the disguises of lust, friendship, combat and many other names.

It wasn’t him. It wasn’t about him. Maybe it was, a little bit. But mostly it was about who I was, who I was becoming and how quickly this was happening so ‘I am’ and ‘I’m becoming’ were both the same thing. It was the age, it was the universe at that very moment. Maybe it was the magic of the 90s. Maybe it was just love.

Love is more than an emotion. It’s that experience, that universe that settled over the planet I called home a decade and half ago. I thought it shattered when he broke me. But it left such tenacious fragments embedded in parts of me that I’ve bled everytime I’ve encountered one in the years. I’ve hated it, I’ve feared it.

And now I am ready for those pieces to knit themselves together. Or maybe a new universe to form itself around me. I know it did once so it could again. I can feel it, drawing from the fluid, strong nature that has become me.

I am looking for love, like the kind that is making me write this right now. Anytime now it’s here. Already.z87vi9zhlra-jason-briscoe

*Image via Jason Briscoe on Unsplash

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*If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.

The Myth Of Monogamy & The Promise Of Polyamory

Image Source: James Callan on Flickr (via Zemanta)

The Single Married Man says:

Yes, I am back.

So what do we talk about today?

How about the reasons why men cheat? But I am sure there are tonnes of articles and justifications that you can find on the internet (Google informs me there are 4.7 million results when you type that phrase in)

So I thought I’d merely point you to a couple of very interesting articles someone shared online.

One was this review of Stephanie Coontz’s book “Marriage a History” which says:

“Marriage was a way of turning strangers into relatives, of making peace, of making permanent trading connections,” Coontz says. “There are many different languages that call wives the Anglo-Saxon equivalent of the word ‘peace-weaver’.”

The other was a blog post written by Dave Pollard who writes:

Anthropologists have concluded that such settling is unnatural, and that is why the chemistry of love binds us to a single partner only for a brief period sufficient to produce offspring and ensure they are sufficiently provided for until they are weaned.

Personally speaking, I am attracted to people all the time, and I don’t mean it in a sexual way all the time. Today’s generation calls it by new names like “Friends with Benefits” and the needless need to label relationships.

Happiness comes not by defining and putting boundaries around a certain thing, but by expanding it.

In my decade of being married I can count the moments of true happiness and the hours of feeling burdened with expectations and pain and hurt.

Yes marriage is hard work. And while people crib openly about going to work on Mondays and celebrate by saying “Thank God it’s Friday” – no one (at least publicly) says they are sick of marriage.

Commitment. That’s a big word. A word that gets interpreted by different people even if its the same context. Add infidelity to that list.

Women say commitment has to be not just physical but emotional as well. However, every married man doesn’t share everything with his wife. How about bitching about his wife’s habits to the boys? Is that a break of commitment? How about sharing that with female colleagues? Suddenly the lines blur, depending on who the audience is.

“But its the intent” Do I hear you say?

Unfortunately, intent is never visible – no matter how much intuition you go by. What matters is behavior. In offices men and women often end up having “office spouses” – a usually platonic relationship. Would their “real spouses” call that “emotional infidelity”

In the overall analysis, every man and woman has different emotional, intellectual, sexual needs. So why not have different “loves” for each need. And such needs change with time too. People grow apart.

Our parents’ generation did not marry for love – hence they stayed together. If we marry for love at least we should be committed to love itself.

You Can’t Hurry Love…Or A Man!

Phil Collins tells me that,

“You can’t hurry love, you just have to wait. Love don’t come easy, it’s a game of give and take.”

A friend’s mother imparts the following wisdom on men and marriage,

“Don’t expect any kind of sense for about 3 years. After that they kind of settle down.”

PATIENCE is a virtue, apparently a prized one for a woman. Me? I never met a man who didn’t make me, within hours, want to bang my head on the wall. Irrespective of how much I liked him. I think men are like that. Born to annoy.

How does thou annoy me? Let’s count. (In no particular order of priority, they’re all equally irksome)

  • Stubbornness
  • Bird-watching
  • Commitment-phobia
  • Juvenile jokes (toilet humour, anyone?)
  • Bad taste in clothes, furniture, colors, everything!
  • Complete cluelessness about the concept of ‘Conversation’
  • Hormone surges (okay, cross that, it isn’t always a problem)
  • EEEEEEGO (with a huge, big, monstrous, mammoth of an E)
  • Mixed-up priorities (“Let’s go watch the match now!”, “Why do you need to shop again?”)
  • The gall to comment on my taste (“Haha, your brown lipstick looks like you’ve eaten mud!”)

Phewwww..*Deeeeep breath* I think I’m forgetting. I’ve never been high on patience anyway. Some day, some day, some day I’ll learn to tolerate a man being a man. And not keep looking into those starry-eyes and asking,

“Okay, have we grown-up as yet?”

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An earlier version is here. A version is also posted at Yahoo! Real Beauty.

Braveheart

The Beatles sang,

“All you need is love”

and they may well have been right.

In our increasingly urban world of nuclear families and zero work-life balance, the emotional support system of a loving, caring partner becomes even more important. Ironically, it seems like the demand for such a person is going up just as the supply is diminishing. It’s not that our capacity for love and caring has diminished.

But it seems like trust is so much harder in our times. Break-ups and emotional upheavals are as commonplace as economic fluctuations. Leading a person on with no regard for commitment, is a socially approved activity with the disclaimer of ‘String along or be strung along’. An abusive or cheating partner is entirely your problem. While the world clicks its collective tongue at such occurrences, that’s about as much sympathy as you’ll get, and even then, grudgingly.

And after you weather the misadventures of these cruel times, what’s left of your heart to share with another person? Multiply that by two and it makes the fate of love seem very dark, indeed. Love maybe a universal need but relationships are certainly not for the faint of heart.

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A version of this appears on Yahoo! Real Beauty.

The Third Toothbrush

I’ve written about the importance of a girl’s best friend. Here’s when I get to introduce this blog to another important person – the boy’s best buddy. Let’s call him BBB (in the manner of BFFs).

BBB is a classmate of the boy and shares with him those great memories, of people who’ve lived a campus life together. He’s surprisingly (or maybe not so much) different from the boy. Where the boy is a recluse, he’s friendly and sociable. The boy leans to extreme attitudes (burning passion for games, strictly classical approach to literature, loathing for popular music) while BBB seems open to a wide range of cultural offerings. He laughs often and makes other people laugh. In short, he’s almost a male version of me.

My first memory of BBB was when I called the boy during one of his nights out with the boys. Much laughing and shrieking and giggling (?) was in progress in the background. A short pause and the boy said in a flat voice,

“I’ll call you back. BBB is grabbing my chest hair.”

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

The day I was introduced to the BBB, I was rummaging about in the kitchen, looking for the neat pile of home delivery menus I’d put together for the boy.

“What a mess!! How did you manage to put every one of those menus in a different place in 3 days??”

BBB giggled and the boy, (hitherto unbothered) glared at him and yelled,

“What are you, six years old??!”

Unperturbed the BBB retorted,

“Be a modern man and help the lady around the house! R, I wish you all the luck with that though!”

There have been several entertaining conversations since then, with me and the BBB exchanging titbits about the boy, who tries to silence us by glaring. The best he’s able to come up with is low mutterings about curd-rice eaters. You see, BBB is half-Tamilian by birth and has lived in the South for the better part of his life. The boy has to fall silent when I point out that for all this curd rice phobia, he’s uncannily drawn to the denizens of that school of culinary thought.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

The boy and I passed the crucial relationship stage of staying over at his place awhile ago. He bought me a toothbrush (awww, yes) and plopped it next to his own, in the holder. I haven’t had much call to use it but it’s always there. It’s one of those comforting signals, one unconsciously looks for, in a relationship.

Last month, I was refreshing my make-up, when I stopped dead in my tracks. In that innocuous little plastic holder above the washbasin, there was a third toothbrush.

“So who’s part of this merry ménage a trios?”

I asked, pointing to the guilty toothbrush.

The boy’s deadpan reply was,

“BBB.”

Guh. My steady ol’ Mr.Everyday gives me no reason to worry about other women. It’s another man I need to be thinking about.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Incidentally it is the BBB’s birthday today. Last night, the boy and I were over at his place wishing him amidst much alcohol, pizza and cake. The guys bopped him all over the floor in that barbaric boy ritual of birthday bumps. Then they made him down a quarter bottle of neat whiskey. And when he came up for air, I handed him a bottle of cold water. Then the cake was cut and I smushed a piece onto his face, which may have been the start of that mess that was all over the kitchen floor when we left. At one point of time, he grabbed me into a hug and yelled

“Welcome to the family!”

The boy looked pained and said,

“Okay, I haven’t been asked to be a part of that family yet but you’re already welcome?! Hmph!”

I waved around the thermacol light saber-sword that I found lying around (that both BBB and his flatmate claim belongs to the other) and laughed. He took it from me, tapped me on each shoulder saying “Knight. Knight” and said he’d bequeath it to me in his will. As the drinks went down, he also called the boy and me, his favorite drunken couple and promised to take our children to Sunday school.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Unlike the boy, I do believe that it is important to at least make an effort to get along with the friends and family of your significant other. It does make life easier. So I’m really relieved that I get along so effortlessly well with the BBB. Socializing is obviously much, much more enjoyable when you actually like the people you’re with. I know the boy probably spends less time with his friends since getting into this relationship (and so do I with my friends!). But the BBB and his other friends haven’t made a fuss of it. Hmm, guy friends always seem to be a little easier to deal with, in that way.

BBB has known him far longer than I have, so he knows where the boy is coming from. But I also find I relate to him so he shares my viewpoint in a lot of things. It’s a good balanced perspective for the boy, one that is agreeable to me too.

I do think BBB is a great guy. So I’m really happy for the boy that he has him for a best friend. Even if I do have to share a toothbrush holder with him.

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