Thursday, June 30, 2011

Cats and dogs and Childhood



It couldn’t possibly rain cats and dogs even if it does rain at all.

The power couldn’t possibly snap and the noise (read: music) stop.

In that dreadful silence and pitch blackness sans a candle and a searchlight, I couldn’t possibly hear the strange noise of gushing water through tightly packed rocks, be transported to that day two decades back when diving voluntarily into the neck-deep river flood I near misadventurously died, find the bottom of the door for rocks, stand ankle-deep in filthy water and comb my short, long locks.

The landlady and the lord couldn’t possibly order me to stay put from giving them a hand or two.

It couldn’t possibly repeat itself when the rooms are nearly drained out.

I couldn’t possibly sit there shell-shocked and edit a file or two when the power connects again, pack all that is needed for morrow is another day except a handkerchief, give the spare key to the landlord to look after the flat invaded, be given a ride to a friend’s place, be sipping a beer or two watching Body of Lies instead of Lust, Caution, be envying D’s whisker, and return next eve to find an all-tidied-up-yet-fishy-smelling flat.

All this couldn’t possibly…!

All this did happen and excepting occasional bouts of exasperation I was gladder I have grown taller, inches wiser and less braver considerably since my childhood misadventures.


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Sunday, June 26, 2011

Aaranya Kaandam: Pulp Perfection



What enemy C said:

I happened to watch it pink eyed. Why did I watch it bespectacled? I don’t know how to answer that. (I’m no beloved Harry either.) It was, perhaps, the itch known notoriously as incurable. To quote a quote from arguably one of the worst movies of the last decade, Bronson: Gentlemen in ladies’ attire (the quote ends), the film called Aaranya Kaandam bears no semblance whatsoever to Pulp Fiction, Reservoir Dogs, Snatch or even Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels. The little semblance it bears to is The Usual Suspects. It was unusual for the film to end with the quote it ended with. I’m not quoting the quote as a review assumes it’s free of spoilers, especially for a film like this, suffices to say it profoundly remarks on the world of men.

What friend B said:

Do you know which film Inception is a rip off of? Do you know how many sources Matrix is ripped off from? I’m not telling you. I say if you didn’t know and wouldn’t care to know, stop telling people around you watch films. Tell instead, every time you went to a screening, you went to shag a donkey or something you think is more agreeable to the person you’re telling it to. Did you know Guy Ritchie rips off? Did you know Tarantino rips off? I brave to bury Ritchie here since he repeats himself shamelessly in Hollywood for absurd purposes. (I wouldn’t be surprised if he made a song-and-dance Indian film just for kicks and cash.) Tarantino, on the other hand, though he rips off (or is it “tributes”) and repeats, he does it so distinctly, with every sentence he writes, every chapter he shoots, he brings them all to life anew and afresh as though for the very first time. If you didn’t know what I’m talking about here, let me say I’m talking about gangster films or (even better) violent films. On a stronger note, these are American and British examples and you wouldn’t call these violent films violent films had you your share of exposure to world cinema and the chance to view some of those rawer European and Asian films. (Pardon my French if any.)

What friend A said:

Except for The Usual Suspects throwback down memory lane, watching Aaranya Kaandam I had local throwbacks that merit mention because they are huge and are much more valid. They are the works of Mani Ratnam and Ram Gopal Varma and the TV series Malgudi Days. The former two wouldn’t come as a surprise and though it’s sad they aren’t anymore it is sans a shadow of doubt they were great in their times, but why Malgudi Days? Well, it is because a subplot involves a father and a kid and there is an episode where the kid runs to hide something and it has a certain kind of background score by Yuvan Shankar Raja, that’s why. Maybe it’s just me. Who else grew up watching the series, raise your hands!

What enemy B said:

The film as a whole is a homage to Indian films, particularly Tamil pulp and pop culture, and it borrows from it, takes jabs at it, parodies it, and supersedes it and puts itself on a superlative platform called the best of world cinema, no less. It has no songs let alone an item song. Not to worry because it has painfully choreographed epic action. The score elevates the bloodshed (that’s equally water-shed) to a level you’d call poetic. The chase shots and the desultory score that accompanies it I cannot help but mention are deftly crafted. Thiagarajan Kumararaja, writer/director, has a very strong ear for dialogues. He takes a simple plot, adds so many subplots, and in the end makes it all work like clockwork. Most remarkably, he gives cliché a kick in the face. The plot when you thought isn’t without holes turns out they’re not holes per se, they’re more than likely flaws of characters.

What the stranger said:

Aaranya Kaandam, the title, alludes to a chapter in Kamba Ramayanam. It’s an epic retelling of Valmiki’s Ramayana penned by the 12th century poet Kambar. It consists of six chapters, the third of which, the title of the film, narrates the trials of Ram, et al. in the forest. Kambar composed the poem so beautifully the critics said even the peg in Kamban's house could sing. If anything, the film keeps the tension between ‘Ram/Sita counterparts’ to the barest minimum to the extent one can say there’s no tension at all or even say they’re not counterparts at all. Singaperumal and Pasupathy, performed respectively by Jackie Shroff and Sampath Raj to near perfection, make twice each or more beastly gestures that subtly hints at the fact these characters are all too human and they’re holding over their heads cans of worms or (better) they’re in a world of hurt or (even better) we’re in a forest. Every frame of the film is elegantly shot. It’s not about divinity, it’s not about morality, it’s not even about good and evil. It pure and simple is about story and its telling.

What enemy A said:

There’re so many things to say for the one-thousand limit and so little words left. I will live to regret it if I didn’t say a word about the character Sappai. This role that’s played by Ravi Krishna is one role he was born to play. The foreshadowing is hilariously and cleverly constructed and it’d be appropriate if you watch the trailer at least twice before you watch the film. As they say in the States, this is a film that demands more than one viewing. If you cannot catch it on the big screen, pick its DVD up when it launches. Remember Inception was for gaming kids. Well, if you were a man and liked it that’s not your fault because you were brought up anyway to like what everyone else likes. Aaranya Kaandam, though falls under another genre, is the real deal. It’s honest to devil meant for gentlemen and ladies in gentlemen’s attire. I risk a bet – the bet is that you won’t get to see a film this perfect for another decade. I’d love to see myself proven wrong. I swear am not kidding one single bit.



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Friday, June 24, 2011

Shiv and His Soul



His was a multi-colored soul. This kid, whose mommy always kept to the kitchen and whose dad forever worked late into the night, spoke to it saying: When I say I want to play, you’ll say you’re game, won’t you. After a second’s pause, turning her head to this side, she said: I surely will, and turned her head to that side and nodded. Her uncle who just stole into the corridor thought to himself: Oh! my-angel-next-door started talking to herself…or what, and went in to his sister to update her on the latest gossips of town. Her aunt, were she here, would have said in a tone of mastered whisper: My niece has indeed found her imaginary friend.

The soul in question belonged to a young man who’s laid on a stretcher in an ambulance a few feet from the house in question. An hour ago, Shiv had an ingestion of **PC/MM -- it must be said the dose was a tad much for his body’s pH balance. A simple ritual preceded the intake of this soma. He sat postured in padmasana on the temple veranda facing the lingam and closed his eyes. He focused resolutely on the split-second silence that’s found nowhere but at the end of the cycle of breathing -- each inspiration and expiration. A voice in his head said: I know Ram, I know Dev.D, who’s Ram.D. He pushed that thought insertion to the darkest corner of his mind, as he breathed, as he sang Aum. In a minute, he was four with the universe.

He saw black, white and then shades of gray. Ever so slowly, a shade of red crept into his monochrome vision that soon was tinged with spectrum. This was the exact moment his soul left his body. The sensation that he had was that of a sword made of ice cutting through him head to loin. In other words, he was having a near death experience. The soul stood guarding his path of transcendence so to speak. A baby universe silently expanded inside him and in his mind’s eye it expanded and expanded until it exploded. He saw one color and its one thousand variations, then one color too many and then he saw everything. He felt his heart reverberate to the tune of what precisely was the detonation of chroma. Now, he was one with the universe.

Like each good thing must, Shiv’s came to an end when he choked, metaphorically speaking, on an overdose of bright colors. He passed out in the course of insecure but pure transcendence. A teenage ascetic watering the roses saw him collapse. She sprayed water on his face, tilted his head with a bouquet of shrubs, all to no avail. She alerted her priestess and they rang the hospital. In 20 minutes, he was performed resuscitation on but his heart wouldn’t beat a sinus rhythm. Except for the faint sign of breathing, he looked as good as dead. He was put on saline. His soul deemed him dead. It’s strange how and what a soul thinks of its body. It drifted to the town in search of its mother of choice to get born again.

Every single nubile it came across it deemed walked the spiritual realm with a slut gait. Shiv’s soul was by all means haughty as a highly and mightily strung virgin country boy. It had abandoned all hopes by the time it chanced upon the six-year-old Purva who had no friends to speak of and who for sport scared and chased alley cats. I could wait until she grows proud and up it thought. Twenty-two years the wait will be and no ordinary wait will it be. ‘Mother’ she called to herself. ‘Aiyoo, it’s our third game and this time around we’re playing god and devil, ok’ she corrected herself.


Meanwhile in the ambulance, the nurse gave a tight slap to Shiv’s face, as is her habit every time a patient refuses to wake up past two resuscitations, and he awoke to a medicined, air-conditioned claustrophobia. Something was wrong with the sound he asked: Where am I? Why can’t I see? Have I…have I gone blind. This is inside, isn’t it? Why do I have this feeling that I’m outside. He incessantly blinked his eyelids and she could tell by the looks of it he was going to cry like a baby any moment as he said: I can’t…it’s all black & white…can’t see the damn colors…why…oh…why! She checked his pupils and ensured they dilated alright. ‘An MRI can tell what’s wrong’ she suggested. She looked to him as though she’d slipped out of a silver screen – straight out of von Trier’s Europa. He bitterly hoped for those episodes in color: If only I could! He thought how sadder it’d make Apu if you told him you could see colors and that the world he inhabited in Apur Sansar was a black & white world. Shiv, though he felt different, felt peculiarly better and asked if she’d unlock the door of the vehicle.

Shiv’s soul had a hunch and found itself under turbulence. Purva said: It’s dinner time and then sleepy time, you want to go home or stay. And again said: Maybe I can go home and come back. It left Purva’s modest residence and as it passed the alleyways the cats orgasmically cried. Twenty-two years after, it’d find Purva in a different corner of the country and be born as her only child, a girl child, and live to a well-lived 80 -- twenty-two years after when Shiv is fittingly fiftyish and after he trips on the stairs on his way to his son’s graduation day event. The soul never will forget the unique aura of Purva and its fragrance which is how it will find her after all those years. It could not forget Shiv’s and it hadn’t in that he lived.

Nurse made her move toward the door and Shiv said: You couldn’t so much as blanket me, won’t you get me my shirt. He felt the shiver intensify as he donned his shirt. When he’s done, as the ache he felt for a second dulled and dissipated, he peered through the open door and saw: green, orange, brown and blue. He cried: Now I can see. He jumped off the stretcher and off the ambulance, ran to the courtyard, plucked a few roses, gave one to the ascetic, one to the nurse; ran to the hotel and ordered pav bhaji like he never ordered it before: on a silver plate with sliced tomato, cucumber, lemon, beetroot, carrot and what not. He has felt his best before but never like this and he never will for the rest of his life feel this best.



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If we see the Milky Way, it is because it actually exists in our souls – Borges
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Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Seven Days in the Global Village



For a week the world was Meadows’ global village of 100 people. Monday, the man tagged 25 was employed at the Factory. He met everyone except men/women 1 to 9 in the hierarchy. That was alright because no one except 10 and 15 were rumored to have seen them. It was when he asked where is 31 and then after a while where are those 31 onwards, he was told not to get nosy like he got and that the room at the back of the factory must never be approached leave alone entered.

Second day, under the pretext of overtime he gathered information about the unseen 70. A prophesy he came across said at a certain hour they will march over and take over the factory. A theory of conspiracy it must be he must’ve thought. He got cozy with woman 23. He’s a charmer after all. She flaunted her heart on her sleeve. In her cabin, the otherwise empty dustbin had in it placed a key. He took mental note of it. He didn’t actually know it was the slurp she said and the cabin broke into laughter.

Wednesday, he’s summoned by our immediate boss who was tagged 11. You’re doing great she said. You’re doing great and earning great. If you want to earn greater, charming, you just gotta go down. She parted her legs from where she sat. You will do greater, I will make sure, along as you go. He caught the drift in what she said. Ayee…I’m content that I’m great he said.

Fourth day, he unlocked the forbidden room. What he saw was abomination itself. It wasn’t the spectacle of the missing 70. It was the spectacle that shone a light on why the 70 were the missing 70. It was dead feeding on dead, 30 of us, death breeding death. The stench, like the stench of burning flesh that remains with a soldier, due thanks to his elephantine olfactory memory, all his life would never leave him. The comparison was unjust at best as the stench was unsmelt-of to say the least. He pressed the switch named C that said: Don’t you dare.

Friday, the 70 rounded up (it truly was 43 of them) the factory of 30. At the back, from the patio they were flung stones at and this act later was excused as: They only chucked their garbage. At the front, they were told: Why do you think the Factory exists in the first place. We are here to enhance your living conditions. We are here to empower you one step at a time. We are working on it day in and day out. The clothes they wore hung torn and the brand name read Adida which literally meant: Beats me. Hesitantly, slowly they dispersed, half convinced, back to their tents poled up in the suburb.

Sixth day, switch C was turned back on. No sooner than that was done, 25 saw butterflies when beaten the daylights out of him. He pled justice in the face of greed and injustice. He was told democracy was heaven-sent and there’s nothing just than it. Even as he raised all his ten fingers he was dismissed as minority (his toes fell asleep). The tides wash the shore and when they want to wash beyond the shore there’s nothing you can do about it he was told.

Sunday, our man 25 was rendered handicapped and certified insane. It seemed, so very obviously, at last he rested. Woman 15 said to man 25: You got paid in kindness, I’d bet, for your virtue. Why your hand is still in one piece is a question of fortune. In you verbal report you spoke against the natural possibility of creative destruction, that right before arriving at your conclusion you went crazy, and conclusively accused its propagandists as narcissists and fatalists. Here’s the written report that says your method of sedition, that and that alone, drove you crazy. It will be your report when you sign it and that’s exactly what you’re going to do with that very healthy, visible hand of yours. Man 10 with a sanitary tissue wiped off his hands as an afterthought. He has broken two legs after all.



As narrated by Man 24



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Saturday, June 18, 2011

Reader



He reads both the discourses and judges one to be pessimistic and the next optimistic. The backdrops against which they are written betray conclusions. There are three worlds (each invisible to the other). Utopia is where the negative text came from (from Dystopia came the positive text) and Ecotopia is from where came the reader.

How is it that a text does not come from the latter world but a reader and how come it is that reader has access to other worlds when he couldn’t possibly have. The answer to that, Dear Readers, is plain. One need only fall in order to be exiled and have access to other realms. This reader, who comes by the name of Rufisel, is in a self-imposed exile.

If one needs to have fallen to access other realms, does that mean our unfallen gods are impostors? I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer that. Does fall signify unfurling of the third eye? Perchance it does. Does that not mean we never fell? You haven’t, inquisitive reader, not yet. Some of you have, most of you haven’t. It’s when you all, not when most of you, fall do you as a world enter realms other. The fall must be collectivist, not individualist. So it could not come to pass when a world is in its infancy. The world must be in its adulthood and zenith for the fall to happen. Is hypotheism a tightrope walked by theism or atheism? Yessiree, very much by both.

As to why a reader and not a text, well, Madam, it is perchance a utopia in itself or by any other name is a blatant lie and because there they do not write anymore. Least importantly, Sir, who else there is to read and interpret if it weren’t for Rufisel (and his freefall). The ideologies shall run their course and it matters little they clash, flourish or crash. What matters is you’re here and it is the illusory Now.

Dystopia lies amid its ruins not a mile (though not in space) in time from Utopia. Ecotopia lies on this side, the same distance from Dystopia, again in time and not space. Ecotopia, in other words, is the third world which explains why it is not another utopia. Utopia is the first world and for the reason that it homes in it a dystopian mind it truly is not the first world. Dystopia is (not the second world) the middle world. It is not the second world for the sole reason it contains in it a utopian mind.

What and where is the fourth world? Now, Reader, you are humoring me. A world without borders it is and this is where you will be when your governments cease governing and perform their proper job of protecting. To live in the fourth world is to live one leap closer to fall. Fifth world is the fall and sixth is life after fall. All these worlds are lived physically.

May you, kindness, hold your galloping horses! Seventh world is life beyond physical plane. When you enter the eighth world, here happens the shift in existence, all the unfallen gods get physically born whence you left. The fallen gods that you are shall oversee their life on this planet called Birth and at long last there will be Nede and only Nede, no west or east of it.

Why a Dystopian mind, he asks himself, produces a utopian text. It is because, he assumes, the Utopian mind conceives a dystopian text. It cannot see what it imagines (it creates a world out of thin air all the same). First there comes to be Dystopia. Then there comes to be the Dystopian mind whence comes the utopian text and with it the utopian world. To judge by the worlds they inhabit (and the dictum there’s something outside the text), the utopian really must be opti-pessimistic and the dystopian pessi-optimistic. Here Rufisel encounters the paradox: what creates what (utopia dystopia or dystopia utopia). He cannot find a resolve to it. It remains that what it is: a paradox.

It’s only a matter of time, he deduces, before a Dystopia transforms into a Utopia and vice versa. He thinks wouldn’t the author of the dystopian text be pleased to know if her speculated world comes to naught (and wouldn’t the author of the utopian text be pleased to know if his speculated world comes to be). But, alas, he thinks, there both worlds, though hidden in space, very much (respectively in their glory and gore) are and wonders if there’s anything he could do about it. He falls asleep, then, from his wake.

When he awakes, he writes his discourse on the Fourth World. In its pages is envisioned the character that enlivens Fifth World in which is inscribed Sixth World…so on until there is the Eight World and then under its panoptic care there is Nede where no one need write, in like manner, for it isn’t a world of boredom or deception. Except the ones that ceased to exist (for they no longer lived in the minds of their authors or readers), all these worlds existed side by side in space or in time eternally. Strange as it may sound, Dear Reader, it however was and is and so shall be.




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Monday, June 13, 2011

Lightning Up



She’s mad and she’s naked. Right beside me she sits. This is now. A headphone, an empty Gold Flake pack, a broken mirror stand, a wrist watch, a knife, a wallet, another headphone, a bowl, a Swiss-knife, an erect half-lived candle, a mobile charger, Nokia Tube, a comic book, a lighter that says Fuck Dxmxcrazy, a pendrive, a toothpaste, a mouthwash, scattered tablet foils, a Vaseline, a tray, an empty wine bottle: things that are in front of me! That was three years ago.

She’s running a fever and she’s wasted. Right behind me she lies. She’s been down with flu the last couple of days. She comes up to me and says ‘Shit.’ She hasn’t been outdoor in days and yet her hair looks windblown. She clutches her stomach, whines, and throws up on me. I’ve had this intuition for a while that she’d one day puke all over me. I bring the bowl between her mouth and my person.

She gags twice, rips her clothes off, runs and slams the door. From the balcony I watch the street, she runs amuck naked. I pinch myself and say ‘Fuck.’ I run the razor over my cheeks, take a crow bath, spray Ferrari under my armpits, search for my pressed underwear. I gather my gear and force of habit look for the lighter that’s missing. I lock the door and run the street.

The bush at the front of Ohri’s is burning. There’s a guy laid on the ground, holding his middle portion, groaning. She takes notice of me and in those eyes is not one trace of recognition. She rushes to board a bus. The conductor, taking a good look at her, refuses her entry.

She moves in circles around the near-empty bus and with her bare hands, taking a deep breath, overturns it. There’s the thud and screams that deafen my ears. Two cops struggle to cuff her hands. Before they succeed, one cop dislocates his shoulder and the other loses in a row four of his front teeth. Her hands cuffed behind, she flips the lighter over to me. I shove it in my back pocket where it always stays. She’s clothed and taken into custody.

‘It’s not you I blame…not you’ she’d say sat shoulder to shoulder in the courtyard of the House for the Severely Insane. ‘There’re people before you and around you -- your never-pleasable mother for one, then your sister, your boss, your ever-suggestive never-sympathizing colleagues, and then your ever-policing society and ever-failing democracy. My knight in shining rubber is one toy among many toys and is ever around the corner.’ She’d stroke my manhood two layers too close to skin and say ‘your high-class jeans and fancy underwear, darling, made me want to blow you very many times even when I didn’t really want to. I’ve been a bitch, sweetness, I’ve been a bitch.’

‘I could’ve castrated that man balls and all but I didn’t do it and didn’t want to’ she’d say, and start weeping. When she weeps nothing in the world can console her and she keeps weeping hours together until her tear ducts themselves run dry. She’s escaped from here umpteen number of times -- each time causing significant havoc. She’d say ‘you lock up people who’re sane so that you, the insane, could roam the streets scot-free.’

‘When I’m clothed it makes me want to put my fingers through my chest, grab that heart of mine and squeeze it to dryness, and you know I have that beastly strength in me to do that and much more. It takes great effort to rip just my clothes off. When I do that, I’m free and then I want to burn this world down -- dust to dust ashes to ashes.’ ‘You never smoked except drink wine and beer, I never drank except smoke and hookah, and I thought we’d make a perfect couple. How wrong was I. It’s not you, honey, it’s the world. I love the way how you carry the lighter even after all these years. You knew I always forgot mine.’ I’d say ‘force of habit, sweet, force of habit.’

She’s mad and she’s naked. Right beside me she sits. It’s now. No one in the bus daren’t look this way. I haven’t a clue how she escaped this time and whether she tracked me or found me by chance. I tried to clothe her with my wardrobe, she twisted my wrist and it still aches. Her mons pubis is a forest and her cleft is perfectly hidden. Her breasts sag and nipples erect. Her head leans over my shoulder and I hear her say ‘Lighter.’ Without a trace of hesitation, my hand reaches my back pocket.





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Thursday, June 9, 2011

Muse Abuse



My son got assaulted by thugs days ago. It seems he published in his blog a pillow talk he had with one of those girls. She is alleged to have sent her friends after him. My daughter came and told us he was found barely alive. The doctor said he’s convalescing alright. She’s been saying this since day two. It’s been a week now he still goes back into coma minutes after he gains consciousness. It’s not just about girls he writes, you see, in his blog. He writes also about us, daughter told us. He writes in a WordPress domain named My Truth with Experiment. My brother said that’s an insult to Father of the Nation. He has referred to his godfather as twerp. I don’t know what that means. She said it’s a bad word. When I asked him about it, he said ‘Telling it like it is, mom, the truth. One day your son will be known as a radical writer’. He was going to publish his webpage as a scrap...or crapbook.

A son is an asset to the family we tell ourselves. Most families grow old to find out that is not the case. Do not do unto others as you’ve had others do unto you. What’s his name…Shaw, yeah, he said it. Their tastes may not be the same. He was an intelligent man. Parents aren’t perfect people. Children tend to think we are or we ought to be but we really are not. We but always do what we think is good and wish the best for you. We sometimes are pushed to rear a child with a cane. If we did it, it is because you were, you see, too much of a brat. ‘If India were US of A, mom, you with dad would’ve been jailed many a times’ he expressed recently. That explains why kids there carry guns to school. Those kids when they grow up are sent to shoot civilians around the world: it further explains. Why shoot inside, you see, go shoot outside instead. Maybe my son thinks we are keeping the country from becoming a superpower. At least kids there become independent no sooner than they are teens so that parents can save up for old age. He was twenty-two and wanted pocket money.

You may think I’m rambling. You should listen once to my in-laws to know what rambling really is. We divided our children’s property equally so that she wouldn’t be asked, you see, for dowry. She wants to be independent and treated like a person and not a woman. He seemed to agree to the idea but it stands to reason he agreed halfheartedly. He began treating her with contempt and us with her over time. He says he doesn’t write and would never write for money. I somehow doubt he means what he says. His dad of late gave him too much freedom, not by any measure more than we gave his sister. Look where it got him when she’s fine as the bright morning. She will look after us for sure but nothing would be more pleasing than him joining her, reconciling and feeling loved. We may be too much of a burden on her otherwise. Sometimes I wish we had another daughter instead. She’s spending all that she’s saved up on her reckless brother.

If he writes a lot, she reads a lot. I tell her women shouldn’t read this much, she says ‘we’ve come a long way, mom, from dark ages.’ What he did with his one-night stand is a case, she says, of muse abuse. It is when you write about people you’ve known, to single-mindedly attain your artistic goals, with nary a care for their well-being. He spends the little -- ‘it’s just 30K!’ he’d say -- he earns on the girls that each stand one night with him. We spent sleepless nights every time he fell ill since his childhood. He cares not for us. There are worse cases where children treat their aged parents ill-manneredly. Ours is a case where things are about to get worse. They bring you into this world, feed you, buy you things, teach you, and give you courage. They are, in so many words, your inspiration. If you don’t take care of them when they’re old you’re, you see, abusing your muse.

Not a single one of those hundreds of admirers he called friends visits him as he struggles for his life. The one person who cares enough to pay him visits is his harshest critic whom he called his ‘enemy’. They were close since their boyhood until recently when they fell out. The poor man, his father, keeps vigil all night regardless of his weak heart. My man never took bribes and got told by his son ‘if only you took some we could’ve been well-off.’ I go there in the daytime and I’m just about to. It breaks my heart to know my adult son is bedridden and needs his fragile-boned mom by his side. I wish once and for all he wakes up strong, clearheaded, and new.




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At IndiVine

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Saturday, June 4, 2011

Dusted Time




Love, in its essence being give and take, loved more every time it gave and took a little less and Time, lacking in its being simultaneity, over time, timed more or less the former a bathos. Love, over time, hated itself and doubted its very existence. Thus time and time again, love came and went and never stayed. Time loved set love timed!

After a day’s shift, she would come and knock, instead of the door, the window and enter the house through it. It puzzled him at first and then he was amazed to know there was much thrill in the oddness of it all. She knew well enough to tackle the boredom of cohabitation.

She left home through the roof. She walked the roof on her back on all fours and then walked backward on the wall. Walking it, she observed a Rangeress observing her. She landed on the path and ran so fast the law-keeper couldn’t keep up with her. The law knocked the door and inquired Colum if everything inside was in place mentioning an odd exit and a runner. He said, holding his laughter by its tail, that ‘She does that’ and it’s not because ‘she’s mad or anything’ but because ‘she’s madly in love than anything.’

Alefor when snorted or sublingualed, being the dust of time, breaks the time barrier causing simultaneity. Looked through the hourglass, worn as spectacles, the optic nerves connect and the mind of the observer transports itself into a timeless sphere, inside soul out of body.

The downside of this is the subject witnesses the other’s life. Harli observes and it is Colum’s life. From an ovum’s clutch of a random sperm to his hand caressing her face, all that is of him, every single piece of his existence, all that he will not remember, all that he will, all there as one single absolute moment.

One of those days, Colum was buying wood to carve her matryoshka dolls a shelf and beside him was a young lady. He struck a conversation with her and they walked together. It looked to an onlooker that one was courting the other. Harli arrived there having looked around for him and stood there. Colum said to his companion: ‘You’re a fine lady and all…

Downside two is that she can never show it all to him. He will see if he dares to, but only her life.

Colum said to his companion: ‘You’re a fine lady and all but this lady front of us who’s craving for my attention is finer and you shouldn’t take it to heart if at this very moment I eloped with her.’ A rush of blood lit up Harli’s face and wide-eyed she took his hand that he extended toward her. And run they did. The once-a-companion stood there baffled. The Rangeress who was witnessing all this approached and told her that ‘They do that’ and that it’s because ‘they’re mad and in love.’

Downside three is the mind of the participant shifts back to the mundane once Alefor wears off leaving the experience to be assailed by mood swings. The moods, guided by Time, guide what to make of what. She knows and knows better, only not all the Time.


xxxxxxx (here the scroll was illegible)


Hand in hand they danced, strings stemming from their flesh and bones, anchored to the ground in eight cosmic directions. This is how it looked to glimpse from the outside. Like puppets they danced and dance they did to eternity. Lips locked, overwhelmed, sex locked, in slow passion, uroborosly entwined, lost to oneself found in the other, sex unlocked, wasted, replenished, transfixed, exhausted, underwhelmed, found in the other lost to oneself they lived, all things considered, ever happily fairly after.



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The above narration is an excerpt from ‘Dust and Time’ found while swimming in the Idea Space









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Related Tale: Poles


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Wednesday, June 1, 2011

Even

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You are an entity. You walk around, you see yet another entity, you are either moved or upset. You call a spade a spade so you call it what you think it is. You see one and call it a spade. Time passes, you see the same entity and you feel different about it. You have changed and with you it too has. Before long, it calls you a spade.











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