Elephant
Aththa! Aththa! Aththa! by Jayanth Sharma
March was a dead loss. Death of clowns (Anura Bandaranaike) and of prophets (Arthur C. Clarke). Counting my paycheck, mopping the floors. Meditate in the morning, just to keep my head from sliding off my skull. Walk past the warehouses in the hot sun – trying to stay awake, aware. When I’m paying attention I stretch my fingers out, trying to touch something. Just trying to breathe. Put one foot in front of the other. Down hospital halls and corridors. Nurses in their deceptive whites and unshaven legs. Dude operating the coffee machine, 30 bucks. Back up the stairs, and I know the way by now. It’s hallucinogenic, this toreador. Small room, but decent. People come and go, but the elephant remains.
It’s years ago. I’m in our favorite Italian cafe, clutching a canoli. They got this imported apple juice, tastes like Eve squeezed it herself. Jer’s lymph nodes were as big as apples when they took him in, made my eyes as big as jolly ranchers. Now we got the test results back and it ain’t good. Couldn’t think of nothing, so just teased him, as usual. Made fun of how radioactive his sperm would be, asked if his pubes would fall out with the chemo. That’s all we had though. Laughter. Hang out at the house after he did go bald. Play video games, pat his pasty skull, check out the thousand dollar vials of poison in the fridge. Jer made it. So lucky, but he always was. Not laughing so much this time. Too late in the day.
It’s today, or something like it. Sitting around, clutching a perfunctory beer that tastes like carbonated awkward. Elephant is there again, crossing his legs and reading the paper. Talk about stuff, the mundane, inconsequential, the real surreal. Verra Verra. Indeed. Never once ask the elephant how he got here, if his trunk is packed cause he’s going to leave. Dude does mention that he’s born in July. I got not a useful thought in my skull, not a wise word upon my lips. Just sit there, hoping the physical presence is enough, that my face doesn’t betray how lost I am. God only knows, and I’m a Buddhist.
This is highly dubious. Miss Travel is a travel/social networking site that connects ‘Generous’ and ‘Attractive’ travelers. To, like, travel together, I guess. It all seems a bit like arranged prostitution and trafficking. This is part of a broader online trend to connect rich men to younger, attractive women. Sites like 
Sri Lankan domestics never say anything, they just stop coming. My maid just stopped coming and when I finally pressed her she said I needed to get a washing machine. I was hoping to ride this one out, but I’ve run out of underwear and I have no choice. I finally caved and bought a washing machine, from 
There’s nothing wrong with pornography, but there’s a lot wrong with porn. Nothing wrong with watching people have sex, but too often that sex is brutal, senseless and coerced. I mean how many couples are coming on each others faces every day? Hence, philosopher king Alain de Botton – after calling for a 
Sri Lanka is going to start offer 
” God only knows, and I’m a Buddhist. ” – lol… nice one..
Heeyy maaan…
Great to hear that you started meditation its the only way of freeing your mind……
Been meditating on and off for about 6 years
Why are you in a hospital? Who is sick? Who is the elephant, a relative of yours? I am not good at symbolism, so try to be a bit more coherent please.
stunning photograph.
huggggggg.