"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations."

Anaïs Nin





Tuesday, October 7, 2008

She had chosen the name of Clearwaters, wonder where she is now...When I made this bowl for stories she was in my mind...
I also reread Mistress of spices, magic novel...but cut it in two pieces and trow away the second part when Tilo meets that man...afterwards it's just an ordinary novel...


But the spices of true power are from my birthland, land of ardent poetry, aquamarine feathers. Sunset skies brilliant as blood. They are the ones I work with. If you stand in the center of this room and turn slowly around, you will be looking at every Indian spice that ever was--even the lost ones--gathered here upon the shelves of my store. I think I do not exaggerate when I say there is no other place in the world quite like this. The store has been here only for a year. But already many look at it and think it was always. I can understand why. Turn the crooked corner of Esperanza where the Oakland buses hiss to a stop and you'll see it. Perfect-fitted between the narrow barred door of Rosa's Weekly Hotel, still blackened from a year-ago fire, and Lee Ying's Sewing Machine and Vacuum Cleaner Repair, with the glass cracked between the R and the e. Grease-smudged window. Looped letters that say spice bazaar faded into a dried-mud brown. Inside, walls veined with cobwebs where hang discolored pictures of the gods, their sad shadow eyes. Metal bins with the shine long gone from them, heaped with atta and Basmati rice and masoor dal. Row upon row of videomovies, all the way back to the time of black-and-white. Bolts of fabric dyed in age-old colors, New Year yellow, harvest green, bride's luck red. And in the corners accumulated among dustballs, exhaled by those who have entered here, the desires. Of all things in my store, they are the most ancient. For even here in this new land America, this city which prides itself on being no older than a heartbeat, it is the same things we want, again and again.


The Mistress of spices by Chitra Divakaruni

8 comments:

Helena said...

You write beautiful pictures, Mousie :)

Thank you for your visit. It always makes me smile to see you have been by.

Hugs from me, Bob and Dilly!

linda said...

dearest peaceful mousie, I soo miss you! your newest creations are just gorgeous...what a lovely idea! I am curious how you did them but won't ask you to tell me :)

....wishing you all your dreams come true...

Prairie Star said...

What a beautiful bowl and lovely story. I'm smiling some more.

Twinkles and hugs,

Prairie Star said...

Dear (((((Peaceful))))))),

Dropping by to give you a big kiss and a hug!

Much love,

Helena said...

I am up late catching up on blogs. I miss my old blogger buddies but can't seem to visit much these days.

I am so low at the moment. Just this last week! Real nose dive. WOW. You forget how it is down here, you really do. Ha!

Prairie Star said...

Stopping by on Tuesday morning for a hug and to say hello! I've missed you and am hoping all is well in your world.

Wanted to let you know that I'm having surgery next Tuesday, so I may be out of pocket (and offline) for awhile.

Love, love, love and lots of twinkles too!

DILLY said...

Hello!
Dilly like PINK!

¬"

Helena said...

Hullo again, my friend!