(Fort Cochin)
(Mysore, incense rolling)
(Pondicherry)
Some photographs of my wintertime travels as I readjust to the erratic pace of campus-living. Theatre Season starts this weekend with Blackbird, and in the meantime, this is a poem that somewhat described the dislocation sensation of being home/interviewing/home/traveling/home/in France/home/in India this past holiday.
Mayakovsky - Frank O'Hara
Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.
The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.
It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.
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