Tuesday, March 10, 2009


Far, far away into your past, there is a lost memory,
One lovely March evening you pffrr-ed, goo-ed, spllrr-ed and rhymed for me,
Rattle in hand, spooling drool, a charming toothless princess riding her aunt's knee.

Names traded, 'Hi's exchanged, we conversed, and you blew me into a daze
As A, as we shall both call her, kindly decoded for me your cherubic ways,
Verve, attitude, puffy cheeks, chubby hands, goldfish yawns - life's adorable plays.
You told me with a twinkle in your eye, with impeccable baby grace,
All you wanted was to stay you, to stay still and outrun the days.

Reality makes fools of us all, helpless as we are to resist time's fatal kiss,
Enduring childhoods, we grow, only to find our own ways back into childly bliss,
During which you'd have learnt to walk, to talk, to read and be a lovely little miss.
Dimples on life's timeless memory, smile once at these plain words as you reminisce,
Years and years and years from now when you sit back and read this.

Sunday, March 8, 2009

Read on.

Um, another of those diffuse, prolix, protracted slices of literary futility. Isn't that what the customary glance/first impression told you? And a glance at the title too said the same, I suppose? (I haven't decided on the title yet as I write this but I'm fairly confident of my abilities to find one that conveys the miasmicity of this dissertation.) And in case I have failed to do so (naming has always been a problem for me), and your first impression also turns out to be mistaken, I want to reaffirm that this is indeed "another of those diffuse, prolix, protracted slices of literary futility". You see, I'm in the mood for some mindlessness with words and as part of the planned mindlessness, plan to do away with the editing aspect of the usual blog production cycle. Yes, I can perceive the perspiration to come and I trust those who have stuck through with me on similarly ululative entries earlier will stick through this one too. I know you will. You will read through every single word I've written here, no matter how fustian it is, because you're going to. We're both here for a reason, I know that as I write this, and you shall know it as you read this. Now now, let us not disregard it by attributing it to a seven letter word starting with D and ending with Y (also containing the words E, S, T, I, N). You shall go through this entire post purely because you wish to see how a post so &*!@%-ly begun, ends. Namely, curiosity. Or even, maybe, on another level, something I can't bring myself to express here. So, anyway, my point is, let's not kid ourselves with metaphysical entities while we can do away with them. They're addictive, dangerous, ugly (according to some people I'd rather not name here), explosive, and lastly, very badly named. Look at the name M-E-T-A-P-H-Y-S-I-C-A-L. Does it sound metaphysical at all? Does it... anyway, enough. I should be ashamed of myself for chastising a poor, lifeless word. And I shall end this with an apology and a statement explaining my callousness towards it. I have known of men driven mad by their metaphysical musings and wish to avoid it at all costs because, however unlikely it may seem to some of you, I'd prefer to stay sane, no matter how insane it might make me.

Alright, I think the entry's done. And I'm fairly satisfied with the results, so that makes me fairly impressed with myself. (fairly. Note the impeccable choice of word.)

I know there are a few notes I need to make in order to explain some inexplicabilities that have creeped in but I assumed the risk when I decided to blindly type out whatever the darker regions of my mind threw at the screen. So much for the so called mindlessness with words. This is what mediocrity is made of, I guess. Alright, the notes.

But first, a Foreword. Yes, there's a Foreword.

Foreword - For those who already know the meanings of the words miasma, ululate, fustian and conniption, you can skip notes 1, 2 and 3. I do not wish to insult your highly developed sense of intelligence.

Now, the notes.

1. Don't open dictionary.com and type out miasmicity to try to find its meaning. You won't find it, as some earlybirds may have already found out. It's a derivative, an improvisation, albeit admittedly crude, of miasma and miasmic.
And yes, you can visit dictionary.com now. Go, and come back. I can wait. I'm fairly good at it.

2. Same for ululative. Try ululate. Go again. (Tip: Keep the dictionary.com tab open. It shall be required again.)
Ululate. It's a beautiful word, isn't it? Ululate. The poetry of the sound of it as the tip of my tongue touches the roof of my mouth... Whoever said poetry needed sentences. And let's not even count in the fool who said it needed stanzas. End of digression. I would like to take the moment out to relish the beauty of the word for now. Ululate. Ah.
And yes, I know you're terribly disappointed with my sense of word-choice in the first paragraph there, particularly with the word in case. I accept the criticism. Thanks.

3. Similiarly, for the words fustian and conniption, please follow directions outlined in notes 1 and 2.

4. And yes, I know that the word conniption does not appear anywhere in the first paragraph. I respected your sense of intelligence, I only wish you had done the same for mine. The word in question is scheduled to appear in the schemed climax of this piece and I wish the reader to know the meaning beforehand because if she doesn't, there is a chance that it might spoil the ending, which I can't take a chance with. I only write so I can end, and end well. So let us not spoil the ending, both for my sake and yours. Let's face it, the sole reason you continue to persist through all this mediocrity is the rational belief that it shall all end sometime soon. Of course, you're entitled to your own beliefs as I am to mine, one of which is not to comment on anything anybody calls 'rational', even if that anybody is, ironically, unfortunately, me. All I would like to say here is that I trust you not to lose track of the meaning of the lexeme at the middle of this storm, especially after I dared call myself 'mediocre' for its sake.

5. I suppose none of you noticed the irony in the use of the word dissertation there. If only you were me, if only. Once in a while, there comes a time in your life when... never mind, I think it'll suffice for you to know that there in fact is a deep-lying irony to the use of that word in that particular context. And yes, you may chuckle now.

6. The number of notes initially scheduled was 6. And I shall make the quota. Some way or the other.
Also, I would like to take this opportunity to remind the reader to remind herself of the meaning of the word conniption because the end is not far away. Just a little longer, dear reader. It shall end soon.

7. There are four instances of usage of 'And yes' in this entry. I never knew I was such a big fan of yes, let alone 'And yes'. But then, writing is a strangely mad thing. Other than reading, of course.

8. I trust the discerning reader has noted my unorthodox referral to the reader predominantly as 'she' or 'herself'. I would like it to be made clear that it is only out of a wish to change the orthodoxly unfair practice of always referring to the reader as 'him' by default and not out of some mushy obligation to do something for womankind on the eve of the 'International Women's Day' which happens to be, fortunately or unfortunately, today. I certainly do not want to be looked upon as sentimental, and I'm glad we have that sorted out. And yes, I would like to wish a happy Women's Day to everybody who can identify with the pronoun 'her'.
And yes, that's another 'And yes' to the count.

9. And so the count finally comes to 9, the most beautiful of all the digits, the most meaningful, the most beautiful of all the digits. (Redundancy intended. I can't seem to take for granted your respect for my intelligence anymore after the fiasco in note 4.) And also, for our present purposes, 9 is the inverse of 6. A final number which is the inverse of the originally planned number. Intriguing coincidence, isn't it? Metaphysics?

Afterword - And now that you're soon to be liberated from the obligation to read (let's say, in another 50 words, for want of precision), you may choose to vent your conniptions in the guise of comments. For those exceptionally affected, and would like to make it known to be so without revealing their tantalisingly affective monikers, I would recommend the use of the option of anonymity. Anonymous comments have been enabled for your convenience.

Friday, March 6, 2009


Bleary lights. Floating colours.
Flame in the throat.

Crepuscular outlines.
Raspy voices.
A world coming to life.

A song for an old sweetheart.
A smile in the dark.

A whisper.
Crumbling walls.
A night swaying into existence.

Closed eyes.
Time fading into smoke.
A memory set free.

A turntable scratched.
And then an enduring silence.


A slow death, a sudden life.

Thursday, March 5, 2009

On Writing

I write, maybe, to converse
With the perceptive mind I so vainly seek in my verse

I write, some would say, out of a lack of faith,
Which I honestly don't find the strength to disagree with

I write, I sometimes think, to regain
All the love and life I've lost to pain

I write, I'm told, to escape
The mediocrity that pervades this modern landscape

I write, it can also be argued, to impress,
Whom, how or why would be anybody's guess

I write, time explains me, to forgive
Myself of the moments I've forgotten to live

And as the debate rages, I digress and ponder,
Affected by an irrepressible sense of wonder,

Who taught me to learn to write
To put wrong to right, black to white?
Who taught me to learn to see
When space and time disagree?
Who taught me to learn to feel
When life so sternly disciplined me to conceal?
Who taught me to learn to care
When cimmerian voices court me out of nowhere?

Was it loss?
Or the margins I forever failed to cross?
Was it fear?
Of disappearing without making myself clear?
Was it rage?
Or a desire to outlast the wreckage?

But when a vagrant word makes its choice
And an empty page finally finds its voice,
When chaos stills itself into a sentence
And a symphony breaks out of its silence,
When a dark night is devoured by a bright day's light
As a trembling heart flutters to life in black and white,
When a world fits into a scribbled word, mirrored in my stare,
There's a question to answer all questions, do I really care?