It's funny the things that make your heart hurt. You think you're fine. And then just something small makes you realize that you're not. And you wonder what to do. So you write in third person and try to remove it from you by removing closer pronouns. Are they pronouns? See you are already distracted. And there is always writing. Vague.ly.

And crowded markets with men shouting, "Yes madam, please madam, look at my shop madam." And you tell them not today, but they don't, and you wonder what phrase it is you have to learn in Bengali that won't be rude but will really let them know you want to be left alone. And please don't grab at me and please don't follow me. And I won't pay that price, are you crazy! Because in your time here ten rupees has become something to argue over. And because even though there are millions of people swarming around you, and chickens in small cages that smell like waiting to be killed, and you think now you will always be a vegetarian, and you don't even notice the men anymore peeing in the street, but the smells you still notice - but the point is, even, with all of this you are still alone. very much alone. And it feels big and frightening today. And maybe you were trying to run away from a broken heart, maybe it's time to be honest with yourself and it's foolish of you. And you are not sure. You don't even know what you want. So you write long messages because you know he won't read it and then you realize that you are publishing them and who knows who read this and you are foolish, even in removed pronouns.

But I am always lonely on my birthday. Which is soon. Everyday in my head. And it approaches with the old familiar terrifying loneliness. approaches. The last two years were different, and you thought maybe you had gotten over it. But you hadn't and it's there, only now you're older. And as Thomas Wolfe said, You can't go home again. Because you can never go back. it seems. because things have moved forward. and why do I bare my heart like this for everyone to see? I wish I had a sense of privacy with my thoughts to protect me today. But I feel the need to share. So someone will see me. Anyone? Because despite all appearances. I don't want to be alone.

I'm tired of meeting new people. Every day new volunteers. I want old and familiar. And now Anita's boyfriend is here. Arrived and great and will travel with us to Darjeeling. And everyone has everyone. Isn't that sad?

And why is it that I feel the need to amplify feelings? sad songs and sitting by myself, when I should be in a park painting things yellow. With the nuns walking by and saying, "you should repaint that cow. There is not enough milk in the udders. And why does that baby have no hair?"

And I'm in India. And I have a sudden realization of just how short three months really is. And my handful of Bengali words. And palaces of sand still standing to see, that will be left unseen, because three months is really so short. And maybe I should just keep wandering around the world until my heart stops hurting. And I stop missing my grandpa. But I will always miss my mum. and dad. and sister. so it's no use. really.

And already I'm starting to say goodbye to what I still have. Calcutta, noise and smog and smoke. I really like you. In spite of it all. Though I hear the air in Darjeeling is pure. And clean. And crisp and cold. And yesterday I called and reserved two rooms for four. And we will pay $2 extra a night for hot water. Hot water! I have not had a hot shower in months now. two. months. Everyday I take bucketfuls of cold water from the tap and throw it over my head because I don't want to turn the shower nozzle on. For some reason a bucket of cold water seems more manageable than a cold stream from above. But hot water! A hot shower! I pinch myself into forgetting my heart.

I hope Obama wins. Otherwise. I don't want to come home. At least not to Portland. Maybe straight to the mountain to hide. And write books. And collect cats and turn into my old grandma wickersham. Who didn't write books but did collect cats. With her hands curled and deformed from the fire. All alone with her cats.

Maybe today I will go to see the great poet Tagore's house. And next to it is the coffee shop of writers. The India coffee shop. famous with students and writers. And will distract myself with poetry. And wander the world. Only I don't want to wander alone. And I don't want to say goodbye to India. Beautiful, crazy India.

India has beautiful poets. The best. Really beautiful. Which, in turn, make me feel beautiful. And I walk with a strut. Again.