Wednesday, December 28, 2011

What Is, What Isn’t



It is a sunny winter afternoon
Back looks the ghost of year past
Floats the blind ghost of year present
Front looks the ghost of year after
Misery is in the eyes of ghost past
A thick veil hangs over ghost present
Terror blinds ghost future

It is a cold winter midnight
Back goes the ghost present
Replacing the ghost of past
Front comes the ghost future
In place for the ghost of present
Back goes the ghost past
To fill in for the ghost of future

Their creator says to its creator:

What’s between them is the significant gap

What isn't between them is dialogue






Friday, December 23, 2011

The Hero's Journey


……
The hero with a thousand dreams

Gets born,

Roll called,

Heartbroken

Breaks heart

Gets job,

Wed

Fathers

Breathes little

Gets buried,

Many steps shorter
……




Wednesday, December 14, 2011

paranoid time sleuth



you may come from distant future, by way of beam travel or strapped to a time chopper, to the past, skim one instance to next, scanning through hard files stacked up and soft, in search, to solve unsolved assassinations and genocides, to mark unmarked gravestones and to bottle unbottled ashes scattered in the winds of time and soon you shall know, leaks or no leaks, that there is a hole in things, and information

is

the

hole

that

the key,

your mind,

cannot penetrate




Monday, December 5, 2011

The Abandoned


‘Guess what?’ he said, with a newborn’s bewilderedness to his tone.

‘Are you cooking our kitten tonight?’

‘No.’

‘The rascal kid next-door?’

‘No, no…’

‘Then, is it a unicorn for dinner?’

‘No, no, no…!’

‘So it can’t be very much exciting as, hmm…but anyway go on and tell me what it is’, she allowed him, with an indulged benevolence only a wife can bestow.

‘I… well… See, I want you to listen carefully because I’m going to tell you this just once, there’s not going to be any discussion, nor any forgetfulness, and two years from now if ever you wanted to recall this day I want your memory to be a clean, blank slate to not recall and utter one word from it.’

‘So what I want to tell you is’, he continued, ‘I’m quitting as a homemaker. In other words, I will no longer be cooking, except maybe for making tea, as and when I feel like it.’


It’s been two years since and there’s no knowing how things transpired and how well it all went because they moved house long time ago.

I’d like to believe they had the baby – I recall they had a quarrel whether to keep it or not keep it, like it was about some toy – and it all went rosy and as planned but how am I to know all that just being conscious and nothing more.

I still hear echoes of the many conversations they had had from the spaces they once occupied, calling each others names, words of admiration and more such.

For a house, I cannot vacuum the accumulated dust off my floor, get the webs growing out of my corners wiped clean, nor can I cement the breaks in my walls.

A house is some good, a sentient house even more so, but an abandoned house, sentient or not, is no good, wouldn’t you say.

Now is that a knock at the door or a creak or both? I hope it’s not one of those moments where I heard it just in my head.






Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Trigger Glad at a Crime Scene


The pointed gun, to analytically put it, could be the extension of his vendetta, that which he shakes times few a day and tucks in his undies, alright, and when I – T Glad, a she – point it what could it be: Dentata? I don’t know. I speculate it takes an acutely educated guess, not acquired from schools big and small, and for my money you’re not equipped to make it.

An educated mobster isn’t an educated mobster y'know…

And you’re thinking she isn’t finishing what she’s starting and you’re guessing: Gangbanger, no?, not entirely missing the point, and then I finish it by saying an educated mobster isn’t a mobster, isn’t a monster, rather a gangbuster, just when your skin starts to leak head to toe, and I tell you I’m aiming for your fingernail and not the hand you guess I’m aiming at, if it were to blast your finger off that’s but the blind gun’s fault, not mine, and once I pepper spray your wound for purely antiseptic reasons, if you’re still not telling me whatever it is that I want to know about, just to shine my skills, not to make a point, I will aim for the next nail, the next, and so on till you tell it all short and tall.

Now…

Which one of those freezers in the city did you, Rattle Teeth, stuff your brother in and why? I’m aiming…fret not…for your fingernail…!



……………



Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Shed and Don


It’s easier shed than donned, as first it did appear, he said.

The marble homes inside it an upside-down vision, dusted and stormed, reflected. Catapulted, its trajectory an upward straight-line – up and straight, in furtive flight. Trees, pillars, sky, roofless homes, unending rows of roofs, architecture, all culminate to a head-braced face, dashing against molten metal, the impact the marble cannot withstand, splinters and scatters, the withering ground its final refuge. Golinath spits his gall, leaps and pins down the perpetrator. Davood, after a unstruggled clever struggle, from under his rival’s grip slips, a snake shedding its skin, climbing his back, gripping his throat, he screams: ‘Who’s taller now, you lumbering gient?’ Golinath must stand up now or lie forever there, nose pressed to the dust. Either way, Davood’s victory, as yet unannounced, is apparent. ‘When I’m riot, you’re wrung!’ The rival stands up, the man half his size clung to his neck, to acknowledge defeat. ‘Let’s be the divided dominant.’ The wind blows askew and the crowd blurts out an uproar. ‘You mean, in other words, divide and dominate?’ says surly Golinath. Davood chooses to rather hold his peace.

The place is guided by heart and mind, or at least that’s what it’s been believed to be. What holds sway over what, between heart and mind? When you sever the link between the two you should know, they converse and concur. Clasp the vessels, in suspended animation preserve and observe them. Decades go by. While the greatest minds are at it, things go askance – glands, bones, spleen, for instance, revolt – things go berserk. Some die, others spew venom, some malnourish, others question. When things get worse, this worse, when it’s late, this late, it’s all but possible to restore the system. By the by, observance yields results, only there’s no significant difference, statistically speaking, between the observed: They both perform, albeit in varied territories, the higher function of reflection and expression in order to attribute meaning, in a world devoid of meaning, to inexplicable phenomena which is nothing but an offshoot of the compunction of wallowing in the lowest common denominator function of survival.

In the middle of everything, Davood gets comfortable in his new skin, the inexplicable adaptability of which surprises him. The media celebrate him. He sets the standards and what yesterday was written off as ugly is today an accepted norm: Beauty. He grows, his muscles swell up, what’s beneath his field of vision grows smaller and smaller. When he stands up after one of those treaties to shake hands with Golinath, they stand shoulder-to-shoulder. Yes, shoulder-to-shoulder in the sense touching shoulders. He feels out of sorts for a moment as he senses he’s catching a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror when he’s not. There’s no distinction as to who’s who. There’s no telling this is Golinath and that is Davood. It will no longer be Davood versus Golinath. It hereupon will be Golinath versus Golinath. He will not be quitting. No!

It’s easier donned than shed, was at last just as true, he confessed.



……………………



Monday, November 14, 2011

Love as an Artist


Sun paints the marketplace in golden hues. It’s a glimpse you thought she said you caught every day and what then is marvelous about it, you quander. At the center of the market, a man named Odd tells a woman named Go she makes perfect sense when she argues they must set their shop up elsewhere the next time. You don’t sell same goods twice for the same price, not just here, anywhere. They sell it once everywhere and sold here L, O, V and E just minutes after setting up shop. Odd and Go are conspicuously attired and so if you thought what they get out of selling what’s worth in grands for peanuts and pursued them thinking your pursuit would take you to their lair of inheritance, a mile into it, right about the third curve, your heart skipped a beat when you saw them dissipate into thin air.

…………

O walks like a polite person, something she does whenever she’s been sold for ten bucks. ‘So, you’re love?’ B asks. ‘Part of, not entirely, yes’ O answers. She’s clad, upon first impression, in a translucent body bag. Inside, she’s scantily dressed, like a supposedly skint actress in a million-dollar film. ‘Care for a smoke’ he asks, offering her a cigar. ‘Hookah, tobacco-less; don’t smoke, no thanks’ she says.

………

C is at the dining hall fork and spoon and he couldn’t contain his desire to consume. ‘Love resides not in the heart, I discovered, nor does it reside in the brain or genitalia. It resides in one empty space between heart and lungs. This is a scientific claim, hypothetical or not, and not some fantastic claim. Now, tell me, just because you tell me you want to consume love, how do I isolate an empty space, salt it, spice it, cook it?’ B tells C what he isn’t in the mood to hear.

‘I don’t care what science had to say about love or lust or anything. I know what it is where it is when I see it and this time will be no different’ C retorts and rushes to the kitchen.

……

She’s standing in the kitchen adjacent to a rack her height. ‘Where is she? Did you or did you not double lock double-check the house?’ C asks B. O is such slender thing she could stand behind a leafless plant and not be seen. ‘There!’ B says. She moves and halts beside the fridge. ‘Now where?’ C yells, growing impatient.

O shoes her shoes and gloves her hands (what is that?), puts her feet up in the air and walks on hands (is this), whirls like a dervish (some form of veneration?), whirls like a dervish out of her mind out of control, whirls on one hand, whirls on fingertips and she’s up in the air (what?), shoots to the ventilation above (?), clears through it like it’s a hoop (!). Seconds pass, there comes a thud, running footsteps echo and fade. Their eyes explore every nook of the kitchen as if she’s present somewhere somehow invisible and only when they fix their gazes upon the spread-eagle body bag does it dawn on them dear love has fled.

‘Love was here…

Love is an artist…’

‘I don’t get it’ B says.

‘…a hormone-driven

Escapologist.’

C demarcates the body bag and scribbles at its foot with a permanent blood red marker: Love was here.

With B fired from his cookery, C backpacks under the influence of an indefinite wanderlust.


L dislikes O, as he thinks she looks loud but O isn’t really what she looks and he’s like if you look it you better be it, even so he fakes a genuine smile because after all it’s the team that matters and it’s all about spirit. O never forgets to leave the translucent jacket behind which L forgets to forget half the time and consequently had to stand and endure Go’s rebuke and this adds to L’s so-called virtues (his dislike of O being one) yet another virtue (again on account of O) called envy. V and E couldn’t wait to see O back again, she being the last to return, and are all platonic hugs and kisses for the millionth time. Once the celebration fades, feast feasted, they’re laid once again up on a beautified platform.

‘Come on, come and fetch anything for ten bucks, come, come on and fetch L O V E for just ten bucks’, the man named Odd bellows at the top of his lungs. When he pauses, the woman named Go ensues the call. It’s a cloudy day and out of thin air a crowd emerges and encircles the shop whilst stocks last.



.



Monday, November 7, 2011

Birds, Fat Boys and Little Men!


What was I saying? Yeah! I forgot to take my Veracity Spectacles off.

Our ship was floating over miasma having entered earth’s atmosphere. Birds were sweeping down across right below us. In their claws clutched for prey were little men. Or was it? Some of them were fat boys. It was simplicity to assume they were captives clutched and dropped against their own volition. In actuality, some of them waved at us and even winked. The rest of them had they caught sight of the ship would have smiled, stuck their tongues out, grinned, put their fingers up or ground their teeth. These are essential human expressions as we’d come to learn and must be anticipated. But from such a state of euthanasia, it wasn’t. Birds persuaded little fat boys and men. Or was it the human pack? When the claws released them, dropping deep down below they exploded. Some of them were immobile but for the inertia of descent while others spinning all the way down to respective targets. The smoke was infuriating. The ship had its Armor Forther on, yet it shook a little. Birds abandoning their flight plunged into the madness below. I hadn’t slept the last day and I was so exhausted I slept with the spectacles on. The clouds would take their time before raining down a cascade of toxins. I had no intention of catching that sight. I’d much rather shut my system down and dream of harmless nightmares.

When I woke up, the ship was far away from earth’s atmosphere. Earth rendered uninhabitable by earthlings. That was what my console had to say. We’re sailing home to tend our own. It was sad we couldn’t do our planetarian work for Earth but it was solace to know I’d soon get to walk the dusty sands of my home planet.



………………………………



Thursday, November 3, 2011

End of the Voll


Whiz lived up in a punctured volleyball. The ball was punctured, yes, but wasn’t so much shrunk. It retained the shape of what one would call a near-imperfect globe. It had a mouth wide open and the puncture in particular was known as zone hole. Dey Kanna!, who owned the ball, the story goes, hung it midair when he found another ball to play with. From under a guava tree, when it’s time for supper, Whiz flew up and down and everywhere before feeding on a fruit-feeding bat after which high on hot blood in her potbelly she was back again inside what they called Voll, the ball. Whiz and her ilk, the residents of Voll, had sworn never to drink out of the semi-divine Human, near as a Gatherer can tell.

……

Dey came leaping one morn. Clumsy on a diet of five appams, it was obvious he was denied that extra glass of coconut milk. He held a cloth that stank of kerosene. Standing at a safe distance from a swell honeycomb, he draped the ball and struck the match. It was all smoke and the bees buzzed and fled. By then Voll had come down, having shrunk it was burning bright. Dey drank the nectar as much as he could and the comb was flung all over the place. Soldiers went and gathered what was leftover. That was how I came to savor my bite. I myself never went anywhere anymore than go round and round the rim of this rusty plate that I call my open universe. Why because this is far more adventurous than scaling a blade of grass or circling the inner walls of a jam bottle and rather much safer. Dey kicked the smoky ball and it dropped flat not far from the shade of the tree. That, you see, was the end of Voll, once home for hundreds of dear-departed Suckers. I’d like to imagine Whiz was somewhere else still going abuzz and not in there drunk to head asleep.

……

Dey ritually climbs the roof every day, glides the length of the roof and dives on a mound of sand. Sometimes he lands on his feet, sometimes on his butt, sometimes he lands his head stuck to the mound but he climbs and dives over and over even so. When where I’m circling is feet away from where he usually lands, it’s not the fear that at one point he might stomp on me. That he will not for the fear the rim I’m so obsessed about will slit his foot. What if the plate the rim is part of were to somehow topple. What if I was stuck beneath it and he stomped over it. The ground is wet, so it’s soft as cheese, and the last thing I’d wish for is to be squashed in such a seemingly complex plain fashion.



…………




Monday, October 31, 2011

Microviews: Belly to Brazil


Delhi Belly (2011)

There was one tiny fraction of a moment I really laughed out. Rest of the time I hoped (and hoped) it’s going to get better and it only drove me to the extremes of tedium. The plot was decent enough but the writing, execution and performances were awful (1.2/10). There was a “similar” film (I think it’s called American Bully. Or is it American Pee?) that was more daring and I (faintly) recall it to have had a few more moments.

The Hudsucker Proxy (1994)

It’s a miracle. The thought the Coens are capable of making a bad movie never has crossed my mind, leave alone something this bad (1.1/10). The one redeeming aspect of it is Jennifer Jason Leigh’s performance and even that grows thinner as it progresses because it’s all about Tim Robbins(’ character) who’s plain-as-blizzard miscast but even with the right casting, a shoddily conceived screenplay couldn’t have been saved from diving face first into a dry-as-a-bone pool.

Endhiran (2010)

Given our global overexposure, there’s nothing new here; yet, it feels overall almost original. One trouble with it is it’s overly commercialized which is a un-necessity (2.6/10). (Here the benefit of forward keys come in handy but can’t imagine catching it on silver screen where there isn’t such a provision). Another is it is written (or rewritten) for a star which is to say it’s deliberate on cashing in on the cult of personality which is in turn to say the audience can think meaning they cannot.

A Bittersweet Life (2005)

If you ask me, the rest of the moviedom must be inspired by Asian cinema and stop flat-out stealing from it. A tale of mobster morality and vengeance staged to perfection (9.4/10), it’s bloody gorgeous!

Shaitan (2011)

It may be an updation of Kashyap’s never-released Paanch (I couldn’t watch it past the first hour, blame it on the large miscasting and (dare I say) bad songs), but here the ensemble is aptly cast and the music benefits the aestheticity. The silent subplot, what some would call overindulgence, is poetic to me and makes perfect sense. Except for its one psychological cliché, it makes a good fusion of art house and commercial cinema (8.4/10).

Engeyum Eppodhum (2011)

The characteristics of the two female characters (played brilliantly by Ananya and Anjali), the portrayal of them, is very unique, and what with meticulous attention to minor characters that journey in two different buses that are about to collide, the screenplay soars (8/10). A minor quibble would be the presence of the song that involves shoulder elevations.

Ardh Satya (1983)

Some movies never age. Thanks to the ever evasive corruption, this movie remains relevant as ever. A film that’s been used template of sorts for cop flicks since its arrival, shades of it can be witnessed in Shaitan. The atmospheric recitation of the poem remains pivotal (9/10).

Brazil (1985)

Throw in British humor, add to it Gilliam’s inventiveness and if the end result isn’t a chariot of gold on fire that’d be too sad. What doesn’t work everywhere and every time (I’m thinking The Pythons) works here seamlessly (9/10).



....................................



Thursday, October 27, 2011

All in the Wrong Places!


………………………………………

The day breaks… the day disintegrates.

Sweepers set ablaze dead leaves. Housemaids jettison bins. Chefs concoct spices. Activists oversleep.

Strategists wake up and smell the decay. Parents spray fresheners.

Saddest is in a coffee bar telling jokes.

Politest says that’s lame. He tells it like it is and you daren’t contradict. Responsible… she sits there affectless. Rudest… the seat’s empty. She’s rolling on the floor.

Day integrates and it’s night.

Mr Saddest is drinking honeyed milk. He’s quiet and is quite weary from telling jokes.

Ms Rudest is on the floor laughing her socks off.



………………………………………




Monday, October 24, 2011

Projection of Personality


You who are deaf to night chirping, you who are thoughtless of earth floating, you who are oblivious to nature, you who are prisoner of slippy senses, you who are possessor of a sleepy mind, wake the frig up!

Agon stirred and shifted his lying one side to another. He partly opened his eyes and, with hindsight, spoke to the little toe of Feline by asking, ‘Tell me, platonic love, is it ten yet?’

Standing almost over him, she said that it’s not and it’s nine. The (so-called) hearing is at ten and it takes half hour for you to groom and another half to commute to the court.

He made his mind up against grooming for the imminent occasion. The very thought of facing the mirror inspired great unpleasantness. So Agon said resolutely to Feline, ‘Wake me up when it’s one past ten.’ And adding, a moment before drifting into a dreamless sleep, ‘Stop the meticulous pedicure and you’ll start looking far less stupid on the inside.’

She leapt twice on the mattress before diving and crashing on it. Guiding her head under an oversized pillow, pulling the velvet drape from a corner, she said, ‘He, the very upset Turv, called in to say he’ll be there in time.’

It was a grumble she heard or something said and she was almost certain it was ‘What for?’

To sit ducks. Perhaps.

Location: Dom

It’s was eleven when Agon stood inside the dock. Noises died, there were whispers and then a presence of silence.

The dome filtered in the beams of low noon that lit the courtroom up bright enough. The judge spoke. It was a coldly warm day and the sweat beads evaporating in slow-motion provisioned Agon the coolness he didn’t ask for. He ran his hand over his peppered scalp. When he held the wooden obstruction his palm made its impression. His hand withdrew and wiped itself on the cotton that he wore. He must’ve forgotten his handkerchief. Judge spoke on.

It was a room of mere five hundred, half the crowd not wanting to wait beyond its want to wait having walked out. On one side of the judge was a statue of Justine poised sword in her hand and a lump in her throat. On the other side was – Talk No Evil, Walk No Evil, Bite No Evil, Bark No Evil – the Three Parrots and a Dog.

Agon’s eyes turning nomadic meandered. There were all kinds of people and one thing they all had in common was they belonged to Planet Dom. All of them gazed at the judge and Agon, alternating between them, except for Turv. He was observing Agon, not wasting a moment on the wigged head. There was the uniformed Top. Two rows behind him was Latisha hands crossed. Right wasn’t there like expected. That’s a man of action, not a man of social (and judicial) presence. Leaning by the window away stood Feline, unmindful of the audience minding her business battling her innermost thoughts.

A while ago when they were on their way he asked Feline, peering into her eyes, what she saw in his eyes. She told him without a second thought what she saw - Quite frankly, an abyss. He expected her to pose the question back to him and she didn’t. She knew, perhaps, what his answer would be.

When the judge ceased to talk, Turv was going to defend rising to his feet. Throwing his hand up Agon gestured meaning ‘No’, without saying so, ‘Stop’ and an otherwise argumentative Turv fell quiet. When Agon stepped outside - assuming he nursed, like the rest of us, an ego - there was a lump in its throat.

Many things the young (namesake) judge said and it wasn’t a speech that quite made a pleasant listening to. It was pronouncement of sorts. An excerpt would suffice to rouse apprehension.

You are a chump who cannot drag himself to a hearing on time… A Doman is a free State Agent and not a free individual agent… You can roam all you want within one thousand miles but here on out you can never leave Planet Dom… The moment you transgress one thousand miles you will have your wrist bracelet replaced with the heavier neck bracelet… You tell us what to do or we will tell you what not to do.

National Bird: Parrot

Feline wasn’t pleased and she didn’t know why. A saffron bandana draped over his head, Agon shook a media person off his presence. Perhaps he told him it wasn’t him he was looking for and the goat he looked for exited one of the side doors. He walked to where Top stood. Behind them was Latisha, bandage over her color bone, hands behind her back, chin up, implying she was looking down on her. Her posture betrayed her trauma.

Those days if you were a Raw Machine you played too rough half the country hated you, so it was all too common to walk limp and move about slinged long past healing time to evoke the hard-to-come-by public empathy.

Feline had aimed for Latisha’s face, what for, to leave her footprint for once. Latisha is too swift. She moved and the misplaced kick left her with an AC dislocation. There were two deaths in the arena that day. They were Latisha’s teammates, skilled second to none, and it came to them by way of Feline’s feet. There was considerable gap between where they stood and the air in the vicinity was calm and tight.

The other side, she saw, Turv handling a media girl. She could say without hearing him talk he talked persuasively for ten minutes without making any definitive sense. When he passed the folks, Agon was telling Top something about the cult of personality that hides behind ideology. When he came beside Feline he didn’t say anything, only shook his head. When Agon joined them, Turv had questions for him. He was baffled by his affectation and the lack of it inside the dock. So he asked Agon what he was thinking all the while standing there to which he answered.

I imagined a mirror between the us, which includes me, and the judge. The judge spoke to his reflection in the mirror. I imagined, yes, but I have no way of knowing it to be true.

For whatever reason, and it doesn’t matter why anyway, just like the judge minutes ago, the media person entered the courtroom and exited a side door.

Population: Fifty million

Three Parrots and a Dog: A Companion Piece

There is a house that homes three cages and inside each cage is a parrot. The hunting dog at the house marches back and forth restless. Stoop it, hunder says one parrot. The cages are suspended at uneven heights. Dog barks at them. Pick on yore one size, scoundrel says another. Over time, the barks grow unbearably violent. Reasonably enough, parrots grow restless. Parrot two, that wasn’t saying anything at all, parrots the barking dog. Parrots three and one follow suit. Dog grows listless and feels vanquished. It folds itself quietly on to the ground. Surely enough, for the parrots, it’s time to snail nap. Time lapsing. Through the glass ceiling seasons pass as parrots nap.


Written for the chip by Agon, director uncredited… (rumored to be Latisha)

This is one depiction of the (propagandist) advert (short film), now banned, that you could catch oftentimes on the skyline of Planet Dom and on the tubes indoor.



………………………………




Friday, October 21, 2011

Two Kinds of Objects


……………………

She collects antiques and shelves them in racks hidden away so that prying-eyed guests are spared from glares of envy.

The last time they met, she placed the object of her choice – an authentic ivory vessel that looked every which way magnificent – a foot away from her friend from whom it elicited waw’s and mmm’s when she said:

‘Out of all my collectible, this is the best object I’ve got.’

The next time - in a restaurant, under a Turkish chandelier - the friend introduced her for the first time to her beau and while he was away looking for a socket to plug in his iPod she told her in a muffled undertone:

‘He’s only one (of many) best man-friends of mine.’



……………………



Monday, October 17, 2011

Child of Night, Child of Time



Moonless night it is, not the darkest.
Motionless trees around, not breezeless.
Neon lambs glow through moisture,
Cold wind blows from nowhere!
A painful world longs to be hopeful.
Bloodshed in a corner, new birth in another.
It rained well not long ago.
Hopelessness takes another breath.
City of hoardings and crossbreeds,
In the midst lays a lone-terrace,
Save a paperback and a lone-soul!

Long locks and blinking eyelids,
Remains there an impression, late into night, gazing,
Gazing beyond the crossroads a billboard,
Board that says pointing to a lady
-Young lady clad in graphic wings-
Be Someone’s Angel,
Thinking nothing.

..

He is begotten son of a woman.
Knew not whence he came from and why,
Why this form and not a bird’s or worm’s,
Why this world and not another!
Long he sits there reading then standing,
Stands thinking, thinking nothing,
Nonetheless something, soul soothing.
Clad in tropical skin, sunshiny eyes,
Statuesque shoulders, limbs and torso,
His legs akin to pine trunks rooted.
Stands like a supple-fleshed proud tree,
Yet remarkably moves,
Moves as though a lifeless tree,
Hairs like leaves swaying.

This loneliest night shan't be his first or last.
Countless nights like these, many shall come forth.
A child of night and child of time afraid of nothing but living life.
Wronged and pained he is, unique not to him alone,
Indeed but pained for the wronged he is.
Whence come the pain and why!

Be it dusk, be it dawn, shine or rain, fall or winter
-And this he never knew-
He casts from his form nary a hint of shadow.




Composed in ‘05, picked up from the seven-page, incomplete narrative poem “Shadow of a Ghost”, presented presently edited and minorly updated.




Thursday, October 13, 2011

What Matters, and When!


..............................

Mother, she is a Post-Meta Feminist

Father is a Mime Sport champion

Sister is - you won’t believe - a Teenager

For a week, I’ve been a Theistic Buddhist

No one cares what your grades are. One cares even less how high or low your Consumer Rank is. What you are on any given day is all that matters. I have my drop-down list of qualms but these are little things I love about Forty-First Century.



..............................

If by a Time-Machine You Go, She Slaps and Other Absurdities

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Sunday, October 9, 2011

The Missing Finger


Toss it one way it drops limp. Toss it ‘nother way it stays stuck to the coiled rope. Can’t never get this gawdamn top spinnin. Set it spinnin at the tip of Luka’s finger, in the small of Bhagya’s back, on mine lil sis’ palm and much elsewheres, all just months ago. In a shor time if Ai learnt anythin substantial it’s that havin an intact right hand is vital and it matters much too much. And it’s no, no laughin matter strivin to be a lefty.

Am goin number one hans free. A croc, Ai thought barely a babe, bites mine finger off. If only I’d been more inquisitive about the rustle down ther. We were excursionin by the mudflat, bunkin class, pedalin five miles under a red hot sun, all for crave of pleasant weather. Used to ride ther every now and then.

Folks Muthu and Pencil Luka pledge they get the finger back. I have a phantom finger. And for a while I never miss the finger much. They think it could be sewn back up. Open the belly up, save for canes and cans it's spic-n-span, no trace of finger, they come back and say. Must haf been the wrong croc. Next time they go it’s past migration time. Turns out we excursioned much too early.

That time – You Make Do with What You Got – it comes. Folks say, when Ai grow up, without it Ai will super fail at foreplay. If that didn’t mean the play had everythin to do with four fingers, Ai got it, got 'em all, I say. No, no, they say, it’s finger specific. Be that as it may, if that ‘int a ruse may it be, Ai want to javelin before Ai go on to master anythin else.

They go wet if you tell them you throw javelin and wetter if you throw it so well. How Ai know it? Champ of the school and that gal from rooftop pick a random dark corner for chitty chat. Am ther all fours by the fell logs pickin roaches and frags for lab. Heard it from the filly’s mouth. Ai do a sprint and release the javelin off mine five-finger hand, it lands right behind me. Tha faks wrong with it.

Mind the language, Sammy, PEd says. Ai got to take time and show him Ai can spin the top with left as well with right, he says on, only then will he lemme access the equipment ‘gain. No danger to others, mind you, danger to mine own self, man goes on and on. Ai migh take time but am not one for givin up. All said, life would haf been half less busy if it wasn’t for the moment between the blind croc and mine bird finger.



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Thursday, October 6, 2011

Absent Gods and Devils


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To non-answer the non-question

Why there's so much good in the world

In a world of God absence, since who knows when, the presense of good negates the existence of God

The same can be said of Devil absence, evil and the Devil


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From Aphorisms for the Wisecracky


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Sunday, October 2, 2011

Malick's Yggdrasil


‘Skips channels, mainly, to Discovery, lots of pretty ads for I-don't-know-what, the episode itself is viscerally borderline interesting, having second thoughts about catching the next episode’ said a viewer. The fact that it was a silver screening must be noted. ‘Since the inspired Badlands – pardon the Days of Heaven I haven’t viewed – after the grand Thin Red Line and halfway brilliant New World, it seems the filmmaker has gone soft in the head. Tree of Life is pretentious bollocks.’

Maybe I was fortunate to have viewed it at the comfort of desktop. You’re in an auditorium to watch the film rolling uneventfully, not to watch the disappointed audience walking out when it’s barely ten minutes in. In an auditorium when you could gladly excuse the occasional breaking into laughter if that’s a reaction to a witty narrative, you might not want to excuse the incessant whisperings and what-the-fug-is-going-on’s. It’s best the audience walked out. Even though I do not embrace the aforesaid critique, the reference to testicles in particular, it must be said Tree of Life borders, sadly perhaps unconsciously, on the phallogocentric perspective.

To go from explicating movie-going to explicate Tree of Life, even though I do not mind embracing its concept (rather perceived theological/philosophical concept) of Universalism, I believe it is one of a kind beast that takes itself too seriously and since it is a hard nut to crack it cannot be satisfactorily explicated. The least that can be said about it is its aesthetics and by aesthetics I mean not the CGI but the cinematography that involves the story of the family (the neighborhood) and that is by all means unique. The CGI shots though by no means bad aren’t in the same vein distinct, and how well it segues with the “pivotal” human narrative and to what extent it proves effective remains questionable.

Pitt as father, besides McCracken as son, is well cast, when Chastain as mother albeit good in parts mostly is typecast, Penn as adult Jack is either miscast or underused or both. It’s not meant to be a feature of ensemble cast. The casting of big stars, Pitt and Penn here, is in order to have the selling point high and in that regard it may be a successful venture but as an artistic endeavor it’s rather mediocre.

Films mustn’t be overlong, not unnecessarily. Case in point is 2081. A film based on Vonnegut’s Harrison Bergeron, it’s built around a flawed premise. Though a satire it’s tonally grim and that makes the premise all the more flawed. But what’s done with 2081 makes it make at least remote sense. It is made skillfully as a short film that clocks in at 26 minutes, makes a point, and before you know down rolls the credits. For its runtime of 138 minutes, if not too short, had Tree of Life been given something of a similar treatment, say 80 minutes, it could’ve been effective, if not to make a point, if not to make definitive sense, to make more sense than the little sense it makes.



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Thursday, September 29, 2011

One of a Kind Quest


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For a few laurels more, Mr Law hunted Mr Thought

There are quests that take no time at all

Streets, cities, attics, homes, countries were places he wasn’t found

There are quests that take all the time in the world

He wasn't traceable even on the Net

There are quests that are outside of time

What, if not nothing, the hands of Law cannot do

He had it figured out at last Poet lives in his head

What, if not little, the hands of Law can do



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