my name is ra.


I don’t know what I’m supposed to write tonight.

I’m just sitting in grey sweatpants.  They were sent to me in my first quarterly prison box, which I received on my anniversary.  I suppose they’re my anniversary sweatpants, my prison sweatpants, a tiny thread to the life that was.

I could tell you about quarterly boxes, and how we wait for them.  I could tell you about the watch that Dave sent in one, and the little earrings.  It’s such a superficial use of money but they were so dear to me.  I could tell you about the bunky I had at the time.  The one who went through my letters and told everyone else that I made Dave up, and I could tell you about all the silly petty stuff that happened while I was there.

I could talk to you about walking through the halls in these sweatpants, feeling at home, and how the girls always commented on my walk.  It’s a free walk when I am at home.  (I could tell you how rarely I walk like this now.) My hips move, my arms swing, my chin stays parallel to the floor, I walk like I am going somewhere.

I usually am.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to write tonight, but I know how I write, and so do you.

There’s a pattern to it.  It will end soon.
… and this is where I say,

But what if it never ends?

I like to balance my words as often as I like to topple them over.  Sometimes you say, nice poem, but really it was prose.  Sometimes you say, great essay, but really it was poetry.

I am a creature in the habit of words, a reader of words in the habit of creation.
I know how I write but, right now, I don’t know what to write.

I’m not wearing a bra, and the gray tank matches the sweats. I asked for prompts at the beginning of this month and a friend said I should write something erotic.

Breasts are erotic.
So I titled a post “my breasts”.  (It hardly seemed reasonable to write about someone elses.)

I began:

I couldn’t steal packets of peanut butter from the prison kitchens because my breasts were too small and the square plastic edges would protrude obviously through my shirt. It was a blessing. I didn’t want to be responsible for stealing. I didn’t want to be responsible for feeding girls who were hungry.

But that wasn’t erotic, so I erased it, and googled erotic writing. I like prompts. They tell me what to write when I don’t know what to write, which happens far more often than not.  Even when I’m exhausted, though, I don’t fall out of the patterns of how I write.

And you know how I write.
You know the patterns of it.

It is tumbleweed, circular, lost.
Sometimes it seems like it’ll never end.

Sometimes, it circles back to a point.
My breasts have a point, which is different than a purpose. I’m supposed to tell you how they feel, but I imagine they feel like most breasts. Like ziplock bags full of pudding and meat fat. I’m supposed to tell you how they feel, but I don’t imagine they feel anything.

They’re heartless, soulless.

If they had eyeballs, they’d be beady-eyed and blank.  Carnivorous cannibals, probably, why would they care about life?
Is this erotic yet?

When I say my full name fast, it sounds like ‘rotica. It is worse when I hesitate. (My names are so cumbersome that I always hesitate.)

What’s your name?
….  Ah, Radhika.

Sure, let’s go with that.
I’ve had stranger things written on my coffee cup.

Last week there was a series of digits.

I asked him what it meant, and he said, it’s a phone number. Mine. Call me.
I asked him what I would say, and he laughed,

but really…
what would I say?

I don’t even know what to write most days, but at least I know how I write. I am tumbleweed, going as much forward as I go backward. I am purposeless points, and squishy bags of inedible combinations. I am prompted, but I never answer the prompt, I just let it blow down the empty desert streets of my mind.  I don’t dial numbers on coffee cups, I’m too busy drinking the coffee inside.  I’m too busy striding like I’m going somewhere.

I usually am.

But not tonight.
Tonight, I just don’t know what I’m supposed to write.


  1. This writing thing can be a real pain in the ain. I know how hard I find it to maintain my output, but since it’s a commitment I made to myself a while ago., it has to be done.

    I am by coincidence a member of a closed FB group that involves erotic writing. Not a good place to be really, since I find a lot of ‘erotic’ writing to be insufferably dull, as well you know.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Radhika,

    You’re a stand-out…quite exotic, which is kinda erotic without even trying. Your name(s) is beautiful. I like the original best somehow, I think you wrote what it meant awhile ago…tell us again. Tumbleweeds sometimes re-tumble over the same ground…I’m not sure they ever roll backwards or forwards though…they’re just natural rollers. 😉


    Liked by 1 person

  3. I expect that most of us didn’t know what to write last night..and are stumped this morning as well. But the sun will come up and a new day will be born and eventually we and you will find inspiration again.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. *hug*
    Writing is like singing and painting- sometimes it’s not clear what it is you’re seeing, or if you want to describe it.
    At least, that is what I tell myself and my sister when we stare at a blank page for hours, not knowing what to do, our colours and inks laid out all in a row.

    Even if you didn’t know what to write, what you did was beautiful.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. The wonderful thing is when even when you don’t know what to write, you DO write. I don’t think it always has to go “somewhere” immediately. Just as every blob of paint and stroke of the paintbrush combine to convey the message of a painting; your words, even when they might seem random, layer textures, colors and dimensions that ultimately combine to tell your story. ::hugs::

    Liked by 1 person

          1. You could always start with hello =)
            I’m trying to be more … more.. about life if that makes any sense at all. My husband and I just recently split and I can’t even begin to describe how amazing it feels to feel confident (confidence coming from the attention I’m allowing myself to reciprocate and accept) and amazing it feels to do what I want when I want to do it. So if a handsome stranger happens to leave his number on my coffee (not that that ever happens to me) I may just start with hi. =)

            Liked by 1 person

            1. I wish you all the luck on your rebuilding. “Hi, my name is…” is pretty much a magical spell. It always makes me smile, extend my hand, and say, “hey, my name is Ra.” So you’re right, I imagine it’d work in reverse…

              Liked by 1 person

  6. I’ve seen tumbleweeds larger than my car as they rolled across an empty highway.
    I’ve seen tumbleweeds packed so tightly against a chain link fence that you couldn’t see through it for miles and miles of road.
    I’ve seen tumbleweeds take flight, lifted by the wind and a bounce, to soar like fragile cannonballs that then crash down into the sand and break into a million pieces of shrapnel, or bounce again and carry on.
    I’ve seen tumbleweeds…
    But, I’ve never known one to write poetry, prose, essays or anything else at all.

    Liked by 2 people

  7. Well — I tried and tried to write a good comment. But my word train just kind of broke down right after leaving the station. So, I shall say nice blogging and just quite simply how you amaze me. Thank you for being here and blogging. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Grey sweatpants are the best sweatpants. I wish I’d been wearing some the other night. I didn’t know what to write then, either.
    Right now, I’m wrapped in an ivory afghan. Not erotic, but special. Someone crocheted it for me in the 1970s.
    Here’s to finding comfort when we need it, in afghans and sweatpants and — who knows — maybe even coffee cups.

    Liked by 1 person


Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s