Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Human





A humanoid faces an armored human foe.

A baboon performs a stunt to its master’s play of bamboo.

A whale throws up a man from its belly.

A horse drags itself with its deceased master upon it to a standstill.

An ostrich is alarmed finding a biped buried to its neck.

A dove with a note tied to its leg takes flight.

A temple rat bites a morsel of laddu prasad.

A moth flies into a just being lit cigarette.

A white ant eats through the corner of a classified document.

A louse tastes blood from the nape of a neck.

A prokaryote splits itself up and it is two.


The youth who quietly observed, dumbfounded, now speaks: ‘It means…it means…what was I…those I’s of I…no, it’s not like that…is it…it’s not like that.’  He’s told: ‘Our method of tracing past lives in repetition proves that souls are only born once as human. Does that point to the answer it’s in human form we find our salvation, or don’t, and it’s a question worthy of rumination. It’s no wonder our clientele isn’t anything to write home about. People don’t like to hear something like this being told to in the face.’ He, a well-to-do worker bee, exits the building confounded.

The youth makes up his mind. He thinks he should let his captive go. Just for today and off I let her go, he wills. The train that swishes past him leaves a dry aftertaste in his mouth. The bridges that zigzag the skyline, were it made centuries ago would’ve claimed too many lives in the course of it being built, collapsing under the weight of corrupt engineering. It’s like the cannibalistic Gods of Construction sought sacrifice after all. These days, it still does take lives but not so many. The engine revs up and he overtakes the train in seconds, cuts to right and races atop an immaculate 32-lane.

He enters home and unlocks a door inside of which remains his catch. He loosens the collar’s grip around his neck, leaves his NetPen and key by the stand, unzips his fly. She comes to him like how a bee comes to hive. If you don’t, he pulls the stun gun in your privates. He tells himself just this once. She does to him mouth to phallus and wonders after a while why he didn’t insist past that. He hands over to her the Mexican rolls he brought. All the while he stands there, she doesn’t look at his face once. She stares above and below into space with a twitch in her neck every time she turns her head. You see her and you said you never saw so humiliated a human.

What came to pass is peculiar but by no means peculiar to ones aware of the architecture and working of the human mind. He willed consciously to let her go the next morning, which doesn’t amount to anything for a conscious will is quick to change. He not only willed consciously to let her go, he unconsciously willed it too. So it came to pass he forgot to collect the NetPen and key, not purposefully leave them behind, as he left the room. He shut the door and went to bed and that was it. She lies in her bed wide awake and connects to her sister via the NetPen. Her sister coming up in a beam queries ‘Maa…rr…eee!’ in a quivery voice. Her face couldn’t contain the grief of loss and the amazement of having found her sister, albeit at a distance, after three long months. Miriam brings her finger to her lips and whispers: ‘HUSH’.


The Beginning

Mr Machine cries ‘Rekha!.’ He’s been building Space and Time since boyhood and having just returned back from 24th century India cried. Ms Machine is enthralled. ‘I want to go to the US,’ says Machine Jr. ‘In space or in time?’ asks Mister. ‘Don’t know’ says Junior. Mister says to Miss ‘I actually set the controls, you know, for BC Scotland. Never mind, it works like clockwork, wherever it goes.’ ‘Oops, it works’ she says. ‘Oops, it works’ they all say. Aren’t they one happy family? ‘It’s time, Machine, we go where Junior wants us to go’ says Miss. They indeed are one happy family.


The 22-two-year-old astronaut leads her crew to the spaceship. She stops and considers what if by a fluke she doesn’t get to return and feels the earth beneath through her boots.

At Kadri, Mangalore, a bunch of girls molest a boy. He struggles, orgasms, then bleeds and goes limp.

A little away in Kasargod, from Bekal Fort fireworks go off as diverse slew of bright colors. A group of trekkers, tripping on herbal hallucinogen, smell colors, see sound and wind, and hear joy.

In Kanyakumari, one thousand drums beat to twice as many hands.

In Himalaya, thirty six people bungee jump in accord at the stroke of midnight.

Out from the confessional, a priest touches a boy the wrong way. The boy grabs a melting candle and shoves it up the priest’s eye socket.

‘This is our 49th New Year as the world’s leading superpower. We’re about to go live’ says a big screen up in the sky.

All that is good pales in comparison to all evil that is.


The Middle

‘Mom, calls Junior, ‘this place is so exiting. See this. They’re selling postcards of the lynching. Just like in Desolation Row. Lookie there.  Whites are killing blacks and painting the streets red. They must be right.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ ‘When we go back we must employ this,’ says Junior. ‘That would be exciting.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ ‘I really set the controls, you know, for 24th century US,’ says Mister. ‘Now we gotta rabbit run.’


The PM of India, a Muslim, addresses her nation: ‘Brothers and sisters…’

A 30-year-old youth minister writes the first page of her book she would name The Khrist of India isn’t the Christ of the West: The Puzzling Why.

The jealous brother of Indian cricket team’s skipper calls the media and accuses him of cuckolding. The 27-year-old skipper logs off his LiveN in fury, moves to his twentieth story’s balcony, fights a train of thought that suggests he throw himself down, breaks the aquarium with his bare hands, breaks down and weeps as the fishes bounce to death around his feet.

A 25-year old completes the last sentence of his nonfiction book called The Year Bollywood Replaced Hollywood and dedicates it to his once Palme d'Or awardee grandmother.

A 20-year-old, painted and dressed up as Devi, stages her Navarasa. The applause and whistles refuse to die down long after the curtain drops down. Two drops germinate in her mother’s eyes and like floodgates opened, tears trickle down her face.

All is not lost.


The End

‘Dad,’ calls junior, ‘how about being innovative.’ ‘Say we do it the Indian way.’ ‘Let’s burn the coaches and distribute trishuls to the townsfolk. I faintly recall we did it elsewhere too.’ ‘Right,’ says Mister, ‘right.’ ‘Might,’ says Miss, ‘might.’ And she hasn’t said anything except that in ten light years. Mister says to Junior ‘I actually didn’t set the controls, you know, for 21st century India.’ ‘It’s time, Machine, we sought therapy for mom now that she’s gone raving mad.’ ‘Oops, she’s mad’ they say. ‘Might,’ she says, ‘be…bee…come.’


He wakes up to a whistle and finds her standing over him, her chest heaving like it belongs to an  enraged goddess, teeth tight and grinding, holding a 100-ood-pound slab overhead. Her puffy eyes hint to the fact she’s been crying and sleepless for months. She drops the weight right in the middle where his manhood rests. Somewhere in his head his consciousness shuts down and his great toe wiggles once, face slants and gapes. Two more slabs are added to his person, one to his abdomen, one to his chest. She bounces on his chest and his ribs crackle. He REM dreams a pair of saber-toothed tigers tearing up his body to shreds. His life of nightmare has begun.

Here’s where our so-called civilization plateaued and came to a deafening halt, froze and/or shunt, and it all happened in the human brain. Here lies half conscious and fully unconscious the confused human engine – a testament that our technical and scientific advancement—our external evolution of transcendence—doesn’t coincide at the same rate with our personal, internal evolution. We haven’t truly, so to speak, come out of our caves. We have come out but fallen and fallen not far from the cave. Oh! The things we do to each other, the sister remarks to herself. ‘Should I call the squad or the ambulance?’ she asks.

‘Not yet’ she says to her sister, as she gives herself the anesthetic. ‘An ambulance arrives earlier than you’d think it should these days. I’m glad you didn’t alert anyone for the time like I told you. I want this abomination to go through this much of my own devise when I’m assaulted to be PTSD’d for the rest of my life. Just look away…no not that…just, just look away. You remember the shot you must give me…in case.’ She kneels on the couch. Between her thighs is his face. She says to he who may not hear: ‘The seed that you sow shall all be yours.’ One hand grips a handle and the other directs a sterilized speculum toward the mouth of her vagina, inserts deep inside an instant abortion pill.

‘Call now’ she screams, as she begins to abort on his face.


The prokaryote feeds on itself.

The louse breathes its last of a repellent.

The white ant feels the vibration of a gunshot in its vicinity.

The moth misses its target, flies into a throat and that on it chokes.

The temple rat drinks milk from a bowl.

The dove hit by an arrow dives in the air.

The ostrich hisses to call its flock.

The horse finds itself at the edge of a hill, the ground beneath its feet shifting.

The whale rising to the surface exhales a fountain.

The baboon snatches the stick from its master, strikes it against the ground, and waits for the man to perform.

The humanoid, dismembered from torso down, thinks it may be human.



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Thursday, May 26, 2011

Feline

It was the time Feline ended crawling on fours and began walking on twos – such a joyous thing to do is the do nots.

You do only those and do not these!
I will do this, this, and that, Mr. Ask Me.
No one ever should fall is one maxim and learn from others’ err is another, Little Feline.
I should nevver fall...I should nevvvver fall...fahhah...hahhah. Never will. And I will learn from others’ err...erhheh...hehheh. I will.

As ages passed by like fireflies Feline defying gravity grew one fiber and one thought at a time.

My Tender Mom closed her eyes, I was told, as I opened mine. I mourned only a moment when my Old Man died on me. It’s nature...it’s original sin? I don’t know and care.
I never will and I will.
I sing a hearty song and guffaw, Nightingale, sing back to me.
I wink a warm gesture, where’s my Young Man, come to me.
I sing and won’t sink.
I wink and won’t...
Blast my...! Is it you, Ilene? Broken, crawling on the ground, beat and shite!
Pity me, Feli! I tripped over Love Stairs, fell, and broke my only Heart.
I never will and I will. Off I must go.
I am a winker and not a wanker.
I am a singer and not...
Kris on a...! Isn’t it Feller? Pinned, lifted on a tree, bleeding and pissing.
Do me in, Lene! My brother stole my farm and made me its scarecrow.
I never will and I will. Off I must take.
I sing and I swing.
I wink and...
Gracious bloody me! I must be a ghost if it ain’t Fiery, reductional glow and all. Weren’t you going to jump off the cliff or something?
You mustn’t be one, Feline. I was, but...the claws weren’t, as I thought, deep enough into the flesh. The clutch wasn’t, as I thought, strong enough on the heart. I took days’, weeks’, months’, years’, I do not remember, worth of deep breath and let it all out far and screaming.
I wink and I wing.
I sing and I... (dash and crash)
.
.
.
I am falling off the Cliff of Innocence, mind you, accidentally. From what I can see I won’t lie to you it’s a pretty sight down there. But then, no one told me this, passing by I gathered unwillingly that the greater the fall the greater the rise. It is maybe a lie. If it isn’t one, even if it’s half-truth, I will come around sometime and sing and swing. Now, I fall and I...

There is no knowing how long and deep a fall it was except that one growth occurs defying gravity another succumbing to it, but again both, it is hoped, are short-lived.

Not far away from where you are, a teeny kiddo named Falen learned a trick that if he lifted one leg and put it on where it isn’t to be put it’s fun.
You do only these and do not those!
I will do that, that, and this, Ms. Ask Me.


First tale shone a light on

Monday, May 23, 2011

Perfect Symmetry



It is oftentimes that I wish we haven’t faces. Why just faces, bodies too. Did I say I wish for so many things, like justice, forbearance and sixth dimension, and so it is not to be marveled if I could not will what I wish into being. You say you can tell apart a face in the crowd. Believe you me, I cannot. I’ve grown too morbid to be able to tell the whole from the sum of its parts.

First it was medicine, then criminology, now it is mortuary. Voyeurism and necrophilia—the temptations of the flesh—all in the beginning surely have crossed this mind. With my renouncing of religion, the unbidden flew screeching out of the window. Now even if a pretty corpse woke up and begged me to fuck it I would either say shut up or scream rape and alert the authority of an aberration you like to call miracle. I’m an intense professional and I’ve sworn knowledge is for cutting and cutting only and times like this touching brings knowledge.

Beauty, like fashion, is a shape-shifting beast. The now corpse once was a girl, and it is mine for the hour. The preliminary is the easy part and that is done with. It takes just a moment like it would for a skillful butcher. The hard part is the analysis – not the medical but the psychic. The brain is a powerful vehicle, especially after its death. You would know it if you were a clairvoyant like me. This gift is a secret I keep to myself. Did I tell you it is painful not just to be God but to be like God? Each time I place my hand over a dead head, it’s like touching the untouchable.


She doesn’t like being told to be submissive, let alone being submissive. Picture this: You’re an adolescent boy and a homo who fancies you forces you to do it. How would you like it? Now picture this: Her father forces her to it, she resists him as much as she could and when he finds out she has a lover, envies him and for days locks her up. You wouldn’t believe me when I say there are so many of us with royal blood running in our veins and we don’t know it. This went way too far when I read in her mind that it was the father who poisoned her and know what the news says:  Servant boy did it. Grieving lover must have called her slut. She always doubted he believed her every time she told him about her fiddler dad.

This is her first breakup: 'You’re not handsome enough for me' she says. He says 'You’re not pretty enough for me.' This is what you call making it even. I saw, if only fleetingly, them to be tragically beautiful.

She witnesses her father knocking mother unconscious during a quarrel. Mother calls him a queer, in the process of cussing at each other, after he calls her a whore. Minutes after she comes to, fakes a smile, and serves her dinner. She feels through mother’s aching head, sees her swollen eyes, and thinks she’s insanely beautiful.

She’s a sixth grader and faring poorly in English. Father hits her in the head with a cane, teaches her, and this has been the case for months. 'Your daughter cannot conjugate verbs the right way' he shouts so that mother could hear from the inside. She thinks, sobbingly, she shouldn’t be surprised if she had stroke light years before a healthy human had. Mother checks on daughter standing by the kitchen door and thinks she’s sadly beautiful.


Now after all this, if the servant boy is judged of homicide you shouldn’t be taken aback. Justice is blind, true, and it has a face and a body if you catch my drift. I will not go overboard and tell them that I could see beyond what meets the naked eye. If I do that, I’d be submitting myself to capitalist slavery. Politics, diplomacy, and the burdens that come with it aren’t my cup of tea and are things I abhor. Call me rude and cynic, I couldn’t give a tuppenny toss. I will say I see history repeat itself, that justice has holes in it that are constantly toyed with, and that we are going down the ugly way. I will also say I cannot wait for other dimensions to open up so that we could be free as in truly free.

Symmetry is what I see when I see humankind—the Blakean Fearful Symmetry that’s attributed to the perfect, predatory tiger—kind and unkind at once, constructive and destructive at once.  These are some contraries that create the fearful, perfect symmetry. This symmetry has a beauty about it that’s too fleeting, it can never be captured. This is what we are and not one bit less, not one bit more: Beautiful and ugly at once.

Real beauty then is momentary and cannot be photographed or relished. That doesn’t mean we get to keep the crowd (that includes you and me) from selling and buying lies. This will be the case as long as we have faces and bodies and conditioned brains locked tight up in four three dimension.

To vote at Indiblogger

Thursday, May 19, 2011

God's Advocate



In the heart of Topsy-Turvydom, Right for all the right and wrong reasons was reared by his liberal mother and liberal father (he lied about being that) up until eight being taught the yays and the nays (they disagreed on the contrasts) but taught himself then on through the underground periodicals that he hid under his bed (both agreed on its invisibility to naked eyes) and pulled himself through the tunnel of education in flying rags of collars (both lied about it saying it was ♪ ragas ♪ and colors). The effect of growing up however dizzying was rather satisfying for he had (rather thought he had) a purpose in life and anticipated his first interview in sheer glee (not without a bit of nervousness) for the position of yet another Devil's Advocate. The City lately had an explosion of factories because the other Cities but also ployed to keep themselves green as possible as the underground movement put it or were not only benevolent enough to let us progress as the upper-ground movement put it. The specialty he chose to master himself in had in it all the tools that could shape a morally uptight world to a morally upright one, or so he thought (meaning only well).


He applied Steam Cel on his trimmed hair, Stun You on his face; wore Shoot Me for a shirt, Smiley for a toy that ran from his neck to his incomplete belly, Pull Me for a trouser, Stamp Me for shoes (the rest they won't tell even if they knew). Thus attired, he was all too composed for the impending interview. He had a short videoconference against his jubilant parents (he lived a little away to be close to them) during the full ten minutes of which they wished him well to an extent he had a feeling of having bathed deep in a Wish Well and near the end of it his father was all misty-eyed and mother smiles and pride. Between his ride from his abode to the Interview Chamber, on his roller-skater two ends attached to a remote-controlled Tie Car and one from there to him, is the only time to mention that Right was like a girl when comes to commitment in that he thought a girl would keep him from his climbing the ladder of profession though everyone around was quitting jobs and dropping out of college to wed. He had a way of his own in acknowledging status quo; he said it is pop vulture (certainly not meaning well).

He placed his vehicle in the locker and approached the entrance and for whatever the reason exposed his right eye to the scanner on the side instead of- The door alarm triggered through this action of his won't stop itself from blaring which brought the security to his toes who before a blink shot the Truth Serum into Right's right leg that provoked Right to scream in half agony my right pinkie after which the man in the uniform apologized and retreated to his seat. This behavior of his need not be all that surprising because there was another instance, perhaps at an auditorium entrance, where he tried it with his middle finger (he's only too ex-peri-mental) and began telling mysterious facts about his associates Tops and Turve (mostly upon their own provocation) for which they almost booked him under perjury and soon he began contradicting his own statements. Right now having gained his faculties, it takes only thirty seconds and a shout, came to the scanner and exposed his little finger which for obvious reasons looked like crowbar-proofed, and it was, except for its prints (the Finger Snatchers were growing in number) and tightened his toy and let himself through the door. The Chamber is in the eleventh floor and it's the twelfth on the right, Sir said the receptionist whose joystick-converted fingers quivered as she pointed to the elevator.

He found himself in front of the interviewer who it seemed to have lived half his century inside a machine, his humanly manners notwithstanding. The mosquito that couldn't sleep the day, Right later referred to it as that little vampire, came out of nowhere (for Right) and out of boredom (for the fly) as he began to say good noon, bit him on the side of his forehead so he stopped at goo and scratched his forehead which to the big man opposite looked like a salute that startled him out of his wits but that was only a moment for Right gathered himself back in no time and brought his hands together and made a namaste and completed his wishing which the man acknowledged with a good noon and be seated. The little vampire in question annoyed by its denial of space not wanting to lose hope flew a half circle and found a similar spot on the man's and this time around he startled himself with his own repetition of a witnessed action which put Right at ease at once. You may brief me about yourself, young man began the interviewer. What he replied to this query isn't of primary importance. The reader knows, in the absent record of what he did say, what s/he he/shelf would say in such a situation and what he didn't say was whatever can be said from the aforementioned (the serum wears off in five minutes).

The interviewer who is appointed by the City Council – though he held this post beyond his retirement age, he looked young when he swallowed a particular fish every morning – was a reasonable man with respect to intellect and manners and looked affirmative to Right on his briefing. You have an extraordinary portfolio too he said perusing through his ourPapers. Let's get to the rest, mister, he said, the one question you must answer with a pride of having invented the very question, argue the pros of swordfish serum production in an effort to enhance the thrill of underwater human chase games. Hearing the challenge, rather the twist of it, had Right on the edge of his sanity (he was sane only when it's least expected). Had he heard it in a non-air-conditioned Chamber, he would have bathed himself in sweat. Here it only shook his guts off and put him in a suspended sacrificial altar with his head on it and neck below hung down. Hell of a way to ask an un-question and what is it but conning of the con he thought but brought himself to argue it as originally as he can and added yet it may be a nonstarter to ensure he isn't given a go at it. Though he halfheartedly apologized for his pessimism toward the end of it all, as he wished, the big man gave him a fairly done but negative. When I go out the sky must be down and the land up he thought.

On his way back to his place, he saw the same beggar on a roller to whom he didn't pay any attention to at the time. He paused by and gave him his vRead thinking he may not read but he can sell it for a few bucks and eat a few mouthfuls but contrary to Right's assertion this man read a few stories from it before selling it and began telling them to fellow souls and it turned out one day as Right was halted by a little red man as zebras crossed a boy holding a little girl on his shoulder asked a few bucks for a story which he would later refer to as some revival of folktales. It seems early to shed light on the turning of a table but what happened that puzzled Right to the end of his ride back happened at a period he was most ignorant of the status quo. He learned all that he ever needed to learn, he thought, in his very first year to a degree he felt the second year to be a boredom and third year he was either found missing or writing his Treatise Concerning Wordfares. It took him the long ride back home to realize that the world began spinning in the opposite direction when he took that extra nap of his life, and found that he arrived at his parent's instead of his and rode at once to his not prepared to face them yet. He became so ashamed of himself, it showed, he began riding on the pedestrian platform absent-mindedly.

Right pushed his 12-wheeler into his backpack, too much road skiing can be weary, and began walking the last mile for want of a little warmup and fresh air. Upon his arrival, he saw what looked like two bullies trying to break and enter into his place and Right had a smile on his face when he realized it was Tops and Turve. Turve who is a cop was demonstrating to Tops who is a lawyer how impossible in practice the burglary in the neighborhood last week was and why it was only possible the landlord feigned it. Although Right smiled it soon became obvious to them there was something sad about it. Turve said I see a disastrous Chamber visit and Tops said I see a scratched mosquito bite. They sat on the portico railing as Right narrated the events and where his arrogance is bliss attitude got him. The world never ran the same, said Tops, it has and always had a funny good weirdness to it and now it's all down to questions unaskedI may have a solution, said Turve, think it through, it seems you can run for the God's Advocate now with the same expertise. Right felt a candle light up in his head and the breeze that blew the leaves around made that light in his head glow brighter.







Monday, May 16, 2011

Oil

or

Two Well-to-do's at Conversation


‘My friend white,’ begins the chap, ‘do you really need to do this?’ ‘There isn’t anything else,’ answers the friend, ‘my friend brown.’ ‘This had better be worth the sweat of my brow.’ With his saying that, friend white gets down to drawing of the circle.


Few hours ago at the comfort of home, they’re rocking in their wicker rocking chairs. ‘Oil’ lets out friend brown a high-pitched utter. ‘Where, where’ stammers friend white arising involuntarily from his comfort incliner. The mother brings bottled coconut oil.

‘You pour drops into the navel pit,’ says brown, ‘it takes off body heat.’ ‘You try it too. These summers have a knack of getting through to our sedentariness.’ ‘I wish I could order around there like this,’ says white taking the bottle, ‘but it is, dear pal, human rights violation.’ ‘Oh! really, and ordering your enemy is not?’ poses brown a question. ‘When that enemy himself is a violator, not’ defends white his stance.

‘Things have changed, my friend’ points brown. ‘No, they haven’t’ counterpoints white. ‘Things have and haven’t, is more like it’ admits brown. ‘It was white man sending forth black and white men to…whatever you call it…yeah, liberate. Now it’s down to black man sending forth black and white men for same.’

‘Isn’t it time you told me about the oil spot you were telling me about?’ probes white. ‘I will, I will. What are you going to do about it?’ responds brown. ‘I will test the site and when I know it’s worth the risk I will call the ministry and, voilà, we will be a few inches richer and you will be emancipated’ reveals white. ‘Wait, wait...why do we need emancipation?’ quizzes brown. ‘Mommy oppression to begin with and then there are the female feticide and the sex reassignment absent of infant consent’ clears white air. ‘These are cases you can count on one hand. The way I see it, people out here are more emancipated than people out there’ wonders brown. ‘You’re wrong, dear pal. Media will be here and you know how good they’re at inflating frivolities to dizzying proportions. Before they arrive, your family will be back there from the vacation here. All will be well’ persuades white.


Friend white stands inside the circle he made. Before he puts the mask on, he lets out a jubilant cry, and says ‘Wish us good luck, dear friend brown,’ and masks his face, to which brown says ‘Dear friend white...you really look like a terrorist holding a driller instead of...know what I mean, I wish you well’. White acknowledges with a nod and begins to drill around him.




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



Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Poles



There is a Garden where hinges a part of life and the number of directions it can be entered through are infinite. Within and around it, apart from its flora and fauna, are doors and windows. Felicity is a Window made of pulpwood. Though it stands fragile it never ceases to receive layers added to it. Solitude—a Door made of oak—needs no favors. It stands, though weary, strong – sore hands constantly scratch its thickness.


Once again, and not for the last time, the sky poured its clouds out. In the Suburb of Dom—also known as the Garden of Doman Delights—an arrow’s shot from a Window named Organized Chaos stood bathed in cloudburst Café Chaos. This café, made by a thousand hands of imagining out of smoke wood, never lacks customers. Today, however, it lacked. It is easy to assume most of them went a-hunting in the Garden. The dampness in the air wears thin…the sky snoring overhead falls asleep…southern breeze brushes the atmosphere. Today isn’t a day like any other—not for those who go a-seeking—or...there’s no today.

It was low noon when the café found her entry. The hubbub she was told it is was absent. There on the mirror she caught her reflection which to her was pristine but for her hat that with a tilt was put to right. ‘Merry must it make my suitor,’ she mused. A few steps in on the marquetry, she found a few stags and does, either with or without the other. Out of nowhere, the Maze Door found its way to her. Like many distractions in the café, you don’t seek a door, it seeks you out. She cautiously avoided entering it by taking a U-turn...and found the exit door. Bemused, she stood rolling her eyes around and found herself further bemused for the Maze Door, before she lifted a foot, had found its way again to her. This time, she took her time knowing precisely where she ought to go. To her left, overhead was the Window of Want whence dangled a ladder. She walked sideways all the while fearful the Maze might find her sideways. It did not for it had found another victim backwards. She climbed the ladder and it took a little while before she entered the window.

Sat upon a swivel, she orders a Diet Future with organic straw. The barmaid quizzes ‘New here, lady..?’ She blurts ‘Knew who…oh! New, yea…,’ clears throat and sips Future one sip too many and asks the desk ‘It’s ground here…hmm! It’s supposed to be up, you know…I see the exit door just like it was…!’ The maid says from across the desk ‘Says who…! You oughta know you aren’t talking here to a shrink…you dear kids and your perceptual aberrations...it’s a bar, I’m a maid…I work here, don’t belong here.’ She says ‘I see’ and hands across a Suitor Descriptor and asks ‘Seen a like lad around…?’ The maid studies it:  Shoulders so-and-so…biceps, thighs, endurance, member (stiff and un-stiff), complexion…so-and-so's and exclaims ‘Yea, right over there,’ and adds ‘Except for the member, nubile…! He had me serve him a Cocktail Contemplation, just so you know,’ and chuckles.

A little past Liar’s Couch to the left she sees her alleged suitor stood on a foot legs crossed. She hears:  “Yeah! I love you but that doesn’t mean I only love you” and doesn’t believe what she just heard. It must be a Lover’s Couch, she postulates. She presents herself to the young man. He stands one hand resting on the desk, the other holding his drink, switches his crossed legs to a stance. She hears from a distance “...it’s because I can.”  ‘I used to be Harli, now I’m Bhoomi’ she introduces and adds ‘You would be…!’ He gulps his cocktail and ‘Lemme guess’ she says.  “I work...I’m independent…that means...!”  ‘I’m only guessing, okay’ and says ‘It should be…No…Would it be Pariah…?’ He says ‘That’s something I will be and smiles.  “…That means you can’t fuck around...!”  ‘I’m Bramh’ he says, ‘It’s great to meet you, Bhoomi.’ ‘His pepper scalp I like’ she says to herself, ‘A little mud facial would do good…a pepper mustache would be sinful…the scar on his nape (could the mirror be lying) where did he get it…he can’t be suicidal…his pelvic tilt (yea! I know it now).’  “It’s not like I’m not trying…all I’m saying is you just can’t too.”  ‘The maze is near empty for an uproar,’ he says, ‘and these liars would be silenced were it full.’ ‘Lawyers are they…! I thought lovers’ she says. ‘They’re, Hah! A bit of all those’ he says. ‘I like how his glances connect,’ she thinks, ‘from my bosom to a distant graffiti behind to my eyes and to my bosom again…it must make a perfect imaginary fell triangle.’  “Not hard enough…! I can if I will…I really won’t…so there you have me at odds…and so.”  ‘It’s time for me to make my move so…,’ she thinks and says, ‘I’m a bundle of attributes, you see – nature’s…! A force, an insectivorous, I nourish and am selfish. I’m good and I think...hmm! Am basically bad.’ She pauses to reflect on her own proposal. And wonders meanwhile who it was that told her not to tell truths about oneself to one that’s seemingly a mensch. She waves the barmaid and snaps ‘I ordered a Diet Future…did you by any chance serve me a Diet Past…!?’  “...and so what…? you ‘lil mutton.”  She turns to Bramh and adds ‘Ahem! Weren’t you gonna say yes to me…?’  “So I sever you is what, you ‘lil bastard.”  ‘No!’ he says and says it like he means it and shifts his—. The café finds its regulars enter rat-a-tat-tat in a pack huffing and puffing. Lightening strikes its banner poles overhead. Café Chaos jerks a little too much. ‘We’re time jerked…!,’ announces the barmaid, ‘Days...perhaps...or weeks or months…and into the past...!!’


Chaos – a Door of smoke. Beside it is Organized Chaos. In the front is Order a Window and its vicinity has Boredom a Door. Harli climbs, jumps a Window, bruises her knees, and enters a door. A window forks into a door. It’s easy that way. Who would want to climb a window of pain when pleasure deserves that effort? Walk right in and don’t even know where it is until it aches. Once in, it’s not a door to exit but a window overhead. Gather trash of rusty tins, pins, needles, forks, flat sponge, and smashed metal plates. Make a stand. Out she goes...a work of lifetime in the making.



Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Pure Hazard




Are we living in a media-made world of fiction questioning not its contradiction?

Are we being sold to the unsympathetic corporate policymakers whose goal is greatest production gain at lowest cost?

Who are these people and why do they seek their wealth at the cost of our health?

Whoever they are, it would appear they have grown quite clever by turning quick poisoning to slow unleashing it into our swimming and drinking water.


Germans hold Brits during WW-I with poison gas – the component in their gas, concentrated or not, being chlorine. A classic example of quick poisoning – leads to deaths of one hundred.

You hold a glass of pure water – the component in your water, diluted or not, being chlorine. A classic example of slow poisoning – leads for instance to respiratory illness, bladder/rectal cancer.



Monday, May 9, 2011

To an Artist



This is...A DIARY ENTRY...as recent as last year...UNPLUGGED


Let this be an unpopular demand, I don’t care, or an encore. I want it and want it all the more hardcore.

Let there be natural light. I know it, Jim C, when you fake it. Oh! How I loathe it!

Don’t write a book. Don’t shoot a film. Don’t perform a stage play. Don’t just. I want all this, and more, in one between two covers.

Sell me a ticket to your ancient cave. I want to find there your cave painting. Let this ticket be your Chapter One. Your name is Anon. and for once you’re not a woman...or a coward.

Chapter Two is a folktale, again here’s a ticket to it. I am one among the audience. Tell it, perform it, or do both.

A facsimile after the fashion of Bill B – not necessarily depicting the meaninglessness of life or the omni-impotence of God. This shall be Chapter Three.

Avoid grand narratives by all means for it leads straight to atom bombing or worse to knifing or still worse to forgiving and forgetting. When you’re telling a truth mark it as a lie. Tell your audience in the face they’re the only people in the whole wild world you mistrust after, of course, you own self.

Be devoid of any sympathy whatsoever toward dead white males. If you admire Foucault do not proclaim it until you’ve read Spivak. Do not trust Spivak when she speaks well of Derrida. On the other hand, do not hate white males (dead or alive) for it may be, who knows, one of them who are liberal and swell and ballsy enough to publish what you call breached aesthetics.

Chapter Four is laid out in plain text – neither the easiest nor the hardest thing in the world. With this capture the flux of narrative…only you let go of it in the following chapters.

A comic book – ligne claire it, paint it I don’t care. This is Chapter Five.

Now I see I’m laying out one rule too many even for a radical audience, even if I end it by saying rules are flexible, so I will take leave with one more…or a few leaving the rest to your fertile imagination. Yes, rules, including your own, are flexible.

The chapter which is a movie (in a tiny copy-proof disc) must be a Dogme 95 plus real blood. That is to say if there’s any killing it must be real murder. But on one condition. Hire a person who can resurrect backstage. Not Buddha, not Christ. You know to do better than that – they will never be at your beck and call. Try Brahma, having Shiva already in your court, instead. If you are clever enough to trick them into a contest, just maybe. Again this, with lives at stake, is no play of maybe's. So if it isn’t and you can’t, stop making that film.

The name of your bachelorette protagonist is Kavi Tha. The name of your bachelor protagonist is Poi Kaaviyam. When they marry she will be called Kavi Poi and he Poi Kavi. Their caste is earth, religion sky. Their kids, which they will have many – two pairs of twins, will be taught uncoerced alphabets.

Do not depict lovers/secret lovers getting cozy for more than ten seconds. There’s no bigger cliché in the world.

I want to hear her tell ‘Why do I have this strange feeling of being written by a genetically, culturally challenged misogynist.’ Break the fourth wall. Allow your female protagonist to kick you in the balls. She knows you made her. You know she hates her creator.

Tell me I’m shallow, tell me you’re shallow, let’s not opine on others, tell me things I don’t want to hear.

Give me what I didn’t know I wanted.




Friday, May 6, 2011

A V oid





Seek






Center                                                      Avoid






Void







Monday, May 2, 2011

Meat and Bone


Sometimes he does dine like a glutton. To a ‘have you a minute,’ he’d say ‘I soon must’ if he’s at the middle of it. Once the five of us were at a diner and that was when we had the call from Enoch. It was an emergency of the kind if you didn’t face it once in your lifetime you didn’t appreciate enough your life of being in one piece. Needless to say our Occasional Glutton was at it and ‘I’ll be off in five’ is what he said taking a chunk off the steak with that incisor of his. Enoch was on his way to join us. He submits to overtimes at work like concubines to kings. So when Avani received the call that’s what we all thought – master has slave on a short leash, until the iPhone was passed over to me. I being an expert whiskey chooser, in the two seconds I had made my mind up, when I’m asked it, to say no to JD and yes to WT. That’s what he’d ask about every time he had a fair to good Saturday which by the way isn’t often. Oh boy! What did I hear? She went ‘Oh my god! My mom’s now going to keep saying you’re not only marrying a Christian, a handicapped one at that.’ I wanted to say all Christians are handicapped but some more than the others. I managed somehow to not blurt that out. The origin of this train of thought of mine must be blamed on Glutton. Earlier when we were in conversation and talking about girls, beauty and such he said firmly that all boys are handsome but some more so than the others adding he was merely citing a femmunist. To the ‘do you mean feminist’ he’d bite through the chopstick, gloat and sulk. I knew he made the quote up, because it was I who gave him a copy of Animal Farm thinking it to be kids’ lit, but Avani believed him. She would look at me and mumble ‘Why should this happen to me,’ to which I’d cryptically nod my head. Then she would call the Glutton by its name and ask ‘Why should this happen to him,’ to which he’d look blah. Say this prescience of Avani went on for five minutes, our Glutton when asked if he’s done with what he’s been doing since god knows when said “I’ll be off in five’ - again, which was when we were forced to manhandle the thing to its Audi. She was in too much daze to drive. The two new lovebirds, even a quake couldn’t shake the spell they’re under. You heard of conjoined twins. They’re conjoined lovers. I, who could drive between my legs Harley, couldn’t drive that luxury – the reason as to why you wouldn’t want to hear. That was an eve the slim glutton picked us all up for one long drive.

A Nano T-boned on Enoch’s Enfield with his leg sandwiched between them. The onlooker, who incidentally was a Ray-Ban'ed at dusk medical student, kept reassuring him in a rather explicit manner that he suffered for certain a crush injury that would warrant knives, cauterization, plates, screws and god knows what else. ‘That frigging obsessive god knows what piece of defecation,’ Enoch later would refer to this person as, in one of those rehab sessions, with the PT beside us. I’m not sure if I must go into the details about our arrival at the accident site, the behavior of Avani in particular when she saw him holding his bleeding leg, fractured tibia crisscrossing through the puncture wound, saying you would’ve seen like encounters in movies and it wasn't anything like that. I half expected her to put up one of those acts and she didn’t. My respect for her considerably grew. The ambulance was awaited. Such things take time and patience. Cops came and went. The Enfield stood like it took little (and the Nano half burned up). The angle it got its hit must’ve been funny. He’s limp with only so much trauma is due only to its crash bar. I lit up a cigarette and offered one to Glutton. He turned it down and moved close to be with the other five. Give the near-dead some room to breathe. They won’t. I looked around the crossroads and the traffic rolled on a pace like nothing happened. I looked up at the sky, wished for a sky-quake, and that felt a bit better. In a moment like this if glutton stares at you your nut won’t just crack but go up in smoke. The perpetrator stands there fidgety as the next guy would be. Glutton goes up to him. This guy who is anticipating a slap or much worse freezes with repetitious sorry’s on his lips. Glutton says to him ‘’Cheer up, he’ll be alright. Yours caught fire, huh!’ The guy begins to shiver and sob like the kid you get to see at minutes 33 seconds 56 of Boardwalk Empire Episode One. No tobacco, no alcohol in a quarter century’s worth of godforsaken life. Guy’s pure vegan too, Avani comes and tells us at the hospital, with that stress on Pure. Poor chap nearly killed a man. After what seemed like quarter to eternity there came the sound of siren.


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