Thursday, September 29, 2011

One of a Kind Quest


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


Saturday, September 24, 2011

Hyphenating Identities

The first time she saw me I was sitting on a bench notebook and coal in my hand trying to put into words the desecrated, half nature that enveloped me and there I was not having lunched fifteen minutes past lunchtime not having thought past and if I’ve thought not having put A and B together past the expression how dashing.

Coming to think of it I had it viscerally wrong from the get-go beginning the description in the affirmative when the neighborhood was anything but dashing and indeed in retrospect an amalgam of things.

I remember she had two legs, wore something in olive drab, stood one foot introverted and asked me for change.

She took with one hand the two tens I managed to gather from my pocket and I took from her other hand one hundred.

She sighed, baffled at first as my hand reached back to my pocket and back then the hell did I know about the concept of money, then she smiled and waving at the bus before leaving said something about catching me back again, and I can’t believe for love's sake it’s been two wholesome years.

You know what they say when the magic wears thin, you don’t get to wear the same smile twice, and I know all that’s bull. You wouldn’t know if I’d lied but how would you know unless you’ve lived, not once, twice.

I’m telling you this tied to the sofa and I’m not very certain it was I or she. She makes me swallow the pill, from one hand drops the printed pages in the space between my legs, scratches her thigh, bridles, picks her nose, gathers the pages, tells me there’s no middle way with me, that I keep the house either overly tidy or overly untidy and how she wants neither, that I run uncalled for errands, that she’s going to call my mother. I wouldn’t know to tell her I married her because I missed my mother, and all this doesn’t matter because I pop the next pill I will be untied, adrift to sleep. I had ADD, bipolar and OCD, I still do, and like I get used to anything and everything I grew used to her. Soon I will grow used to the pills and it doesn’t matter. What matters is in a few days all this will be three days behind us, we’ll wine and dine by natural light, and even that doesn’t matter. What I'm getting to is.

The next time I saw her she was lying her back to the bench wearing the contacts that I thought turned light into night stargazing in daylight listening to the conjoined Parapagus Tripus Dibrachius and betwixt and between us (she – a found immigrant-daughter, I – a lost indigenous-son) the one extant lingua franca was a tangible hyphenated identidy.

She had nostrils ears and eyes, wore chrome yellow and I asked her not very predictably for change.

I plucked from her fingers two hundreds as she took my one thousand.

She smiled and I wasn’t sure she wanted me to leave or stay.

She asked me if I was somnolent and I said I’m not, that if I may be so bold we had a movie to catch and dinner to dine but then it happened after years I slept four uneventful hours warm and sound on her shoulder, missed the movie but ate crab and something even more delectable for dinner.


Thursday, September 22, 2011

The Gifted Ms Anything

She isn’t a bundle of perfection when comes to conniving a performance but she’s nothing short of naïve outright cleverness in that when gets asked, like last season, if she wasn’t obviously lip-synching she’d say she’s more a ventriloquist than a soprano.

This season she got fired while ventriloquizing a number emoting a contrary number.

No wonder you hear the rumor she’s going to be reading for X Y Z News.

Monday, September 19, 2011

A Famished Life

Unemployed for months, skint as a stray dog on a leafless tree, Rubin was making himself a body without organs. You ask him why he was making that and he will act puzzled and say ‘Making what?’ Tell him you know, as well as he, exactly what you’re talking about and he will say ‘Making tea’ and then say ‘Making a gear’ and finally before he shuts up for hours say something like ‘How can a machine know?’

West of Nede, parallel to it, in the best of all plausible worlds, Rubin was unmaking himself. There was no one to tell him, if he was doing it the wrong way, he wasn’t doing it right. In a stroke of dexterity, he intersected his uppers and opened the bust. Absence of blood did not necessitate electrocautery. Save for organs of the head, they were isolated. Hands gathered heart and lungs and sewed them up. Likewise it was for liver, kidneys, intestine and testes. Hands put them back together en masse and closed the bust and the waist.

In a non-drug-induced trip, being an egg of intensities, he went cataplectic and ceased to exist. There was no deus ex machina for it wasn’t a necessity. On the other side, in “one” piece he stayed albeit a bit emaciated. All he’ll need to do, if he wanted to, was let out of his cage there a duplicate of himself and unmake that self all over again this side of the world.

The day after, he had an interview. Now, he felt hunger on him. Chest aching, throat choking, head spinning, he contemplated on the benevolence of what’s between his thumb, index and middle fingers before he very patiently, consciously chewed on the crumb. Then he sipped, again consciously, on the sugarless, insipid-to-bitter tea. For the next twelve hours, this will be all that he ate and drank.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Microviews: X-Men to Alphaville

X-Men: First Class (2011)
Cliché, bad plotting, cliché, bad acting, cliché, one nice pyrotechnic, cliché, telling the same thing circularly (when it’s not even a parody of the franchise) makes a lot of money (?), more cliché. Verdict: Full of clichés, little meat. Score: 0.5/10

An alternative view by a five-year-old
The kids are cool (kid thinks he’s an adult), I mean it’s kick-ass (he gave Kick-Ass 12 outta 10), X & Man-eto remind me of Gand-elf and Saru-man (he’s yet to watch HP), can’t wait for its prequel (he means the prequel’s prequel), would’ve been cooler had there been broomstick-handling witches but, where was I, yeah like I said cannot wait for the HP-Toolight crossover. Verdict: Check the score. Score: 11.5/10

Salaam Bombay (1988)
The use of non-actors though not perfect is pretty decent and the moments of stark realism elevate an otherwise simple-minded screenplay to perfection thanks to character miscalculations and failings. So very good; 8/10

Samaria (2009)
Strange; youth, innocence, urban life, alienation, single parent, generation gap; occasionally poetic storytelling, takes good risks with regard to off-the-cuff ending. Verdict: Darn good, more arty than pop art. Score: 8/10

Mynaa (2010)
Good first half, brilliant second half except for the rushed final act which nonetheless is riveting, great camerawork and use of location, could’ve done away with the trite sad ending more (often than not) associated with Tamil new wave and/or been more original and less derivative. Verdict: Very good. Score: 7.5/10

Alphaville (1965)
A espionage & sci-fi satire, dystopian (yes, it’s derivative but cleverly), full of metaphors, exceptionally lighted, shot and edited, camera does whatzit called; yes, magic, good non-dialogue dialogues and moments, absurd, funny & profound. Verdict: Lemmy caution satisfaction (darkly or otherwise) guaranteed. Score: 9/10. p.s – Don’t blame yourself in case you fell in love with Anna Karina; I mean it needn’t always not happen


Sunday, September 11, 2011

House of Love

"You know the rules, don't you? When you walk into a place you're bound by its own limits. I would be in your place in times to come, but for now you're in mine," he spoke as she parked herself on the couch right opposite him studying his unkempt locks then switching between his eyes and lips for traces of lies, if any, and truths in them. The wooden dial on its mount struck six and kept going.
"I fancy the rules you mean are unilateral. They are, aren't they? I give them a cold unwelcome. Would you like some coffee?," she spoke back and began striding toward the kitchen before he could say "I am to make it" and could only watch her balanced moves and admire her curvy aesthetics thinking so much of overweight is pretty healthy. The kettle clanked and opened its mouth for another cold-to-hot delight.

The windowpane was glad to be of aid. Looking through it she saw an avenue, an unlit lamppost, leaves dancing around it, and two skinny boys. They looked like they were twins. It also looked they were either hit just recently by puberty or will be anytime. The signboard hung on the lamppost that read Do Not Hoist your Bicycles or Other Stolen Goods had their notice briefly. They weren't peeking through the window it seemed but their eyes were prying around the house for certain. One will speak and the other will burst into laughter.
Do ye know why trees haf roots? So that they don't hafta wear de boots? It's not de socks eider! It's coz we won't ask dem to go away.
I thought it was...hahaha...fer de Sunde school teacher!
Hah...hah...hah...der can be too many reasons! I'm visitin' Jolly's morrow; wat bot you?
Tell me the nicest Ms. Lilly is, am too.

"They are Top and Turv. They look like twins but aren't. They hung giant chimes around the house exterior last week for a loud fun. It makes me wonder what they have in store for me this time around," he said back and forthing the kitchen length.
"Anything they have and bring about you will be all deserving of it. How I wish they burn the door down!," she playfully provoked him as she tried to break his to and fro and embrace him but couldn't so left an "ahem" and stirred the coffee.
How do you make the best coffee I ever did drink?
It doesn't take more than, say...a little sugar, the right proportion, and a lot of love.

"What do you see that I don't
Don't you say it
What do I see that you don't
Don't you ask it," he read from his mind's book, "that's something I read awhile back. It scared the bejesus outta me. It calls forth two-way secrecy."
"I take it as a cry for balance – you decipher something, the other person something else out of it, know what I mean? – and personal space: the give and take of it," she explained her understating of it and, "now you know, if you weren't knowing, that what you think isn't always what is." She arose from her couch to the one he sat on and sat beside him on the right-hand side sipping what was left of the cup. He finished his and instead of leaving the cup on the desk seated he arose from the couch, left it on the desk, and came and sat on the right-hand side. She finished hers, did as he did, came and sat on the right-hand side. She playfully pushed him with his shoulders imitating the sound of springs in friction to which he giggled and played along momentarily pretending to stiffen his posture.

On the street, Top and Turv had their backpacks loosed and assured each other what was to be brought is brought.
What about the rest?
You mean the crane and all?
Obviously, how did you arrange it?
As it should be! Jamal's cus is on them.
What did you bribe him with?
The two Labrador pups we stole from Dipu's backyard, what else!
The truck with the other stuff too, right?
Sure as hell!

Inside, the blinds were on and yet if you stood in there you could see a quiet snowball, a tiny aquarium with two fishes chasing each other, and before other things you turn back you see them on each other in a certain position; you switch to observing other things and see again they are in another position cuddling and moaning beside other things, and then you are back to other things. It will take time, certain things do, and this of all things must.
You have the greatest of grace and I mean it.
For once can you stop saying the same thing every single time? By the way, did you hear the strange noise around while we were at it?
You heard too? Must have been our guardian angels!
I need a drink.
She released herself from his arms and took steps toward the fridge...and let out a scream. Before the scream was a commotion, a movement inside the house through the window, something entered and exited through the other window. By the time he came to his senses she learned that it was a log.
It must be those little rascals. If I were a butcher I would skin them alive!
Sounds like the best thing ever happened to you! The shape your place is in...!
Here we're caught up in a conundrum and the answer is not me but you.
You mean if you could move into my place for awhile?
What else could I possibly mean?
Then, you know, tsk, the rules, don't you?
Is this the part I say I feel déjà vu!
The wooden dial struck twelve as he picked his stuff up and made a messy baggage out of it.

One thing we forgot, how could we have?
What would that be?
A signboard that read House of Love. What you think?
I think this much is self-explanatory enough...but if we must, first thing in the morning.
Hope so.
Top and Turv from a distance seemed pleased. Through binoculars the house, having the ashoka trees at each side pulled and tied to the roof, the stolen logs placed, and the one log through the windows with a sharp end painted in red in such a way, looked precisely a heart with an arrow through it.


Wednesday, September 7, 2011

A Life Beyond the Grave

Then he goes and sits at the edge. I go mum and am at the other end. The thought of pacification is beyond me. It’s not like it used to be. The bath overflows and flows. The girl in her undies jumps off the bed and switches the faucet. What is she doing here? Why and what is she between us? I tell you what I know how I remember it.

That was the day all packed up I was leaving lock, stock and barrel. I wasn’t sure I’d left a lasting impression on him which was maybe why I was leaving confetti in every nook and corner of the apartment. Baggage on him, he got in and very unlike him triple locked the door. He looked pale. He began unwrapping – electric saw, knives, plastic sheets and bags. Maybe he wanted to literally split the stuff we bought together. He could be nuts, and was unmindful of me.

I went about my laying around of confetti. Just then he saw the furniture and stuff adorned with hot pinks. Just so he knew I waved at him from the kitchen, walked to him scissors and a roll of jet black in hand. He rose and ran to the door. The door wouldn’t open. He’d locked it unusually and he’s nuts. Standing next to him, I just wanted to say ‘Hey, it’s just me.’ He behaved like I didn’t exist, kept staring at my hands. The door unlocked, he rushed out, the door shut behind. Very rude of him!

Round and round sprinkling, I got to the wardrobe. I opened it and saw myself inside. I pinched myself and I couldn’t feel my pinch. I screamed and couldn’t hear my scream. I couldn’t grip a thing. I was no more. Standing over me was our neighbor. She screamed sparingly, brought one hand to mouth another to forehead. It was funny and sad. Others rushed in to catch a glimpse. I crawled out of the house and saw him watching himself. I wanted to ask and couldn’t speak. Seeing me, he crept into the heart attacked (?) body. Just as fast he came out. It wasn't nice in there anymore. He went rolling to hide behind the pillar. My Poor Nut!

It takes time to train your voice in the absence of vocal cords. School of Voice isn’t mandatory but I enrolled in it, when he didn’t, just so I could give the new tenant heebie-jeebies. It didn’t work out like I thought it would. She leaves the TV on mute and I imitate laughter, screams, and dialogues. That’s good training. She thinks it’s her doing and that’s not even funny. School of Skills is mandatory and I didn’t take it, when he did, because I thought I had it naturally in me. All he does and can do is leaving the tap open and then he goes and sits at the edge of bed. I can close it if I want to but I don’t and I like to lift and drop objects. This time I whiz past her and close the tap.

She tells her visitors she suspends, and caveats might suspend, objects involuntarily. That’s very insulting. She’s an amateur telekinetic who believes she’s the one who raises pricks in the hall. He couldn’t stand it so he opens it. I close it, he opens it. She stands there. I close and he opens until the tank runs dry. She senses something strange. Maybe she’s thinking of locks for taps. Maybe he’s thinking, when I’m not, of School of Hiders Finders. I run (?) to the nearest shop and put the lock & key in her hand. The shop guy shouts up from below. She calls him to the door, pays him, tells him she does that and not to mind.


Monday, September 5, 2011

Conscious Act Unconscious Donor

When it’s ten to two, a woman walks down deserted lane. In a dark corner, a man emerges from the shadows and grabs her hand. She doesn’t scream, nor is she afraid. It’s hard to say from here who’s gripping whose hand.

Behind them, two pairs of feet, one from each side, pace and close in on them. So many pairs of hands handle the man. Woman shoves in her jacket what looks like a Taser, and tags along. Little away stands a medic van. On it, it reads

Woman talks first: A good man needs a new heart. Man says: No way. We take what we need and take away what he doesn’t need. Nothing more nothing less. He wanted to get off on you. You got him, we got him. He gets out and consequently limps. That will bleeding be all

Site Meter