Tag Archives: Intimacy

You Don’t Know Me

We’ve spoken. You’ve looked at me and I, at you. You probably thought of me later. Weeks or months later, remembering, wondering why you remembered. If that thought made you smile, and I think it did, yes, I’m that one. And if it worried you, don’t anymore. It was just my perfume, a light scent that you barely notice but it lingers. Just like me.

We’ve had a conversation. We both listened. We both heard. Except you were listening to a recording. And I was listening for the raw, rough notes of being human. I found it in your breaths that were too loud and the sighs that weren’t. I know how to do that. What you heard was just the white noise before a song begins and then you don’t notice it anymore. The song you wanted to sing, that you were always going to sing and I let you. I spoke a lot but I never said a thing.

We’ve touched in ways minor and dramatic. We’ve collided. We’ve danced. But you won’t catch my fingerprints anywhere in your life. Only inside your mind and maybe not even that. You never looked at my hands.

You may think this entails an understanding between us. That’s partly true. You see, I understand you. I wanted to. But you never dived beneath the surface, never peeled back a smile layer or listened beyond my words to my pauses. You don’t know me. You don’t know me at all. 

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YOU DON'T KNOW ME We've spoken. You've looked at me and I, at you. You probably thought of me later. Weeks or months later, remembering, wondering why you remembered. If that thought made you smile, and I think it did, yes, I'm that one. And if it worried you, don't anymore. It was just my perfume, a light scent that you barely notice but it lingers. Just like me. We've had a conversation. We both listened. We both heard. Except you were listening to a recording. And I was listening for the raw, rough notes of being human. I found it in your breaths that were too loud and the sighs that weren't. I know how to do that. What you heard was just the white noise before a song begins and then you don't notice it anymore. The song you wanted to sing, that you were always going to sing and I let you. I spoke a lot but I never said a thing. We've touched in ways minor and dramatic. We've collided. We've danced. But you won't catch my fingerprints anywhere in your life. Only inside your mind and maybe not even that. You never looked at my hands. You may think this entails an understanding between us. That's partly true. You see, I understand you. I wanted to. But you never dived beneath the surface, never peeled back a smile layer or listened beyond my words to my pauses. You don't know me. You don't know me at all. 📸: @unstable_elemnt 🎶: YOU DON'T KNOW ME – Cindy Walker 1964 #theideasmithy #city #cityliving #citylife #Urbanliving #urbanperspectives #lonelycity #identity #intimacy #loneliness #lonelygirl #solitude #defencemechanism #emotional #emotions #relating #relationships #people #introspection #life #living

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

A Game of Eye Contact

A steady gaze is also a cocked gun. This gaze makes the world go silent, words dropping away, identities falling away, sounds melting away and all that exists is that tenuous link held by eye contact. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. These windows pull you in just as much as they penetrate your being. You cannot touch without also being touched. This touch your skin won’t feel but everything inside you will.

There is a wealth of perceptions that lies buried under good manners. There is yearning, unreasonable. There is rage, unconscionable. There is desire, filthy, savage and uncontrollable. There are screams that merge need and satiation. There is worry, seeping into the cracks  between the best laid plans. There are war cries that are claims of identity. 
They lie shuttered behind blinking eyelids and wavering gazes. And when you make eye contact, you will see your pretty covers taken down to wash. Laundry day for your insides. You will feel the rain and you will be the clouds and you will see it all.

It will be hard to remember the boundary between you and me and the world and them and sense and feeling and structure when…when you look straight into these eyes and they look back at you. You are simultaneously witness and the witnessed. The audience and the performer. The existence and its perception.

It takes two to create and not even a fraction of a second. And it takes one to break it and we always do. Because this game of identity & eye contact is one that we all like to play. Just until we remember that when those eyes shut, there is only darkness.

We all look the same in the night.

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A GAME OF EYE CONTACT A steady gaze is also a cocked gun. This gaze makes the world go silent, words dropping away, identities falling away, sounds melting away and all that exists is that tenuous link held by eye contact. They say the eyes are the windows of the soul. These windows pull you in just as much as they penetrate your being. You cannot touch without also being touched. This touch your skin won't feel but everything inside you will. There is a wealth of perceptions that lies buried under good manners. There is yearning, unreasonable. There is rage, unconscionable. There is desire, filthy, savage and uncontrollable. There are screams that merge need and satiation. There is worry, seeping into the cracks  between the best laid plans. There are war cries that are claims of identity. They lie shuttered behind blinking eyelids and wavering gazes. And when you make eye contact, you will see your pretty covers taken down to wash. Laundry day for your insides. You will feel the rain and you will be the clouds and you will see it all. It will be hard to remember the boundary between you and me and the world and them and sense and feeling and structure when…when you look straight into these eyes and they look back at you. You are simultaneously witness and the witnessed. The audience and the performer. The existence and its perception. It takes two to create and not even a fraction of a second. And it takes one to break it and we always do. Because this game of identity & eye contact is one that we all like to play. Just until we remember that when those eyes shut, there is only darkness. We all look the same in the night. #theideasmithy

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

PART TIME LOVERS

The 60s talked of free love. Millennials say fuck-buddies or if they want to be nice, friends-with-benefits. The term polyamory is having a day. It’s no newer than the other ways we negotiate the politics of sex and affection.

I live in compartments of emotion and logic. There is what I feel & desire and what I decide that it’s practical to say & do. The system works but love is an inconvenient fit. It refuses to stay contained to a schedule, a format, a relationship status. It screams like a ravening beast for more, more, never satisfied with the appropriate time and agreed-upon rules that it has been assigned. I don’t know if intimacy can be constructed with an easy-to-follow recipe, paused as convenient or left-swiped when it outlives its purpose. Because intimacy is not easy, convenient or of a purpose. It happens as it is built into the very DNA of human interaction.

We assign it words, weigh it with ideas like jealousy, self-esteem, ownership, patriarchy. But these are no more than nets we’re trying put around something that is fluid. Not even liquid because even that flows within the containers into which we pour it. Intimacy is air, love is plasma – moving between boundaries as if they don’t exist.

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PART TIME LOVERS The 60s talked of free love. Millennials say fuck-buddies or if they want to be nice, friends-with-benefits. The term polyamory is having a day. It’s no newer than the other ways we negotiate the politics of sex and affection. I live in compartments of emotion and logic. There is what I feel & desire and what I decide that it’s practical to say & do. The system works but love is an inconvenient fit. It refuses to stay contained to a schedule, a format, a relationship status. It screams like a ravening beast for more, more, never satisfied with the appropriate time and agreed-upon rules that it has been assigned. I don’t know if intimacy can be constructed with an easy-to-follow recipe, paused as convenient or left-swiped when it outlives its purpose. Because intimacy is not easy, convenient or of a purpose. It happens as it is built into the very DNA of human interaction. We assign it words, weigh it with ideas like jealousy, self-esteem, ownership, patriarchy. But these are no more than nets we’re trying put around something that is fluid. Not even liquid because even that flows within the containers into which we pour it. Intimacy is air, love is plasma – moving between boundaries as if they don’t exist. It is so much effort to erect and maintain walls that will anyway fall. Therein lies the nub. Love and intimacy are not hard; they’re terrifying. It’s a horrific prospect to go along with something to an unknown destination, knowing that it will transform you, take away from you and possibly give nothing in return. That’s not an adventure, that’s a horror story. It’s easier to run in a maze of our own making than fall into the wide unknown. So we work this together. Failing together, even in different places is a form of intimacy too. "We are undercover passion on the run Chasing love up against the sun We are strangers by day, lovers by night Knowing it's so wrong, but feeling so right I guess that two can play the game Of part-time lovers You and me, part-time lovers” – Stevie Wonder #theideasmithy #blog #love #intimacy #loveandsex #sex #friendswithbenefits #fuckbuddies #lovesexdating #sexuality #feelings #emotions #relationships

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It is so much effort to erect and maintain walls that will anyway fall. Therein lies the nub. Love and intimacy are not hard; they’re terrifying. It’s a horrific prospect to go along with something to an unknown destination, knowing that it will transform you, take away from you and possibly give nothing in return. That’s not an adventure, that’s a horror story. It’s easier to run in a maze of our own making than fall into the wide unknown. So we work this together. Failing together, even in different places is a form of intimacy too.

“We are undercover passion on the run
Chasing love up against the sun
We are strangers by day, lovers by night
Knowing it’s so wrong, but feeling so right
I guess that two can play the game
Of part-time lovers
You and me, part-time lovers” – Stevie Wonder

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

 

Not Your Usual Homebody

I don’t like being in other people’s homes. I discovered this, by chance only recently. I have a whole litany of excuses like ‘I spend most of my day cooped up indoors, let’s go out’. Actually that’s not an excuse, that is the truth. I feel hemmed in, suffocated even in other people’s spaces. I am scrupulously tidy (no, that’s not the mental illness called OCD) and it suits me to be so. I could call on my severe allergies as cause to be finicky about clutter and dust. I could point to my rigid, minimalist upbringing (though that had the opposite effect on my personal aesthetic, pushing me to the neon-psychedelic-garish colour range). Whatever be the case, I like the air around me spaced out in a certain way, my vision unblocked by objects and those objects to be aligned symmetrically, systematically and efficiently.

It has been my personal cross to love and be close to people who are messy, careless. dirty or plain slobs. Earlier it appealed to my mother hen instinct to clean up after them. But the last few years, starting with the abusive ex have been a real lesson. Cleaning up after other people is an act of great love and sacrifice. And not one of those people was worth it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? A person who does not even care about their own personal space – will they care about someone outside themselves?

But I digress into the efficiently planned excuse alleys of my mind. I also know extremely clean, organised, neat people. And I still don’t enjoy being in their spaces (albeit with less grief and resistance). A home is such an intimate space. Even if a bed has been made, my first thought is that it has seen the person’s nightmares, their fantasies, their lovemaking, their sickness. A study table has held the fruits of the person’s labour, their worried eye-rubs, their frustrated desk-banging. Bathrooms and kitchens tell you the ordinariness of the starriest of people and often they’re in inverse proportion to how fancy their owners are in the world. Even the hall/drawing room, the most fake of all rooms in a house – it is a picture of how the person wishes the world would see them, who they hope to invite in there, who they are forced to tolerate in close proximity. I can see all this even without the people in the rooms. Can’t you?

It feels too intrusive. It feels like too much. And despite my propensity for intimacy, I do not like it. Intimacy needs to come in small, treasured bites for me. Walking into someone’s home feels like the entire buffet table just got dumped on my soul. I don’t want to see so much, know so much about acquaintances. Especially not when I’m living in a world where flightiness is a point of pride, comittmentphobia is a virtue and meaningless attachments are favoured. Going into a home is emotional labour for me and why should I invest that in somebody unless I know they value it?

I get a reputation for being a homebody (not true, I’m neither wallflower nor 60s domestic goddess). For all the times I propose going out instead, I also get called ‘high maintenance’, a word I hate since it implies other people must pay high to maintain me. No. I like homes and I like mine. But all things in time and in a certain way. Finicky maybe.

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

I’ll Have My Encounters Rare

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

 

Byte Magic 

Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/idea-smith-qor/quotes/ 

The Phone Call

My truth comes calling, on an international phone call
Sounding exactly like every other person who thinks
They have something important to say to me
Except this one always does
For sure, her words are truth, her truths truer.

She thinks I need to be better, work harder, be smarter at my job
I know, I know, I haven’t done it all yet
“Oh, didn’t they promise you that last month?”
I hate her for saying that
Hate her even more because it was 6 months back, not last month.

This was five days ago and I’m still frowning in my sleep
I know because when I wake up, my jaws hurt from clenching them
Every hour from midnight to seven, she reminds me,
“Wasn’t that promised to you 6 months ago?”
Every night she invades my dreams and every day she dogs me.

I won’t take her calls anymore, I decide, I’ll block her, delete her number even
Who needs this constant pressure?
And I plunge into being better, working harder and being smarter at my job
And hope and pray that it’ll help me forget
That she only ever remembers to call once a year.

A Comfortable Close

“I like this”, she says, “I like us.”
“We are a comfortable close.”

And she smiles at the picture on her screen one last time before switching it off.

Intimacy

Intimacy in brief, blinding flashes,
like light reflecting off a knife’s edge,
between our cold, hard selves.

edge^2

edge^2 (Photo credit: dog on wheels)

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