IMG_2590

I wonder, what makes the sun's light
Dance to the tunes of the sea’s foamy white?

I wonder, how could anyone climb so high
And so artfully colour the sky?

I wonder, who taught the waves in the sea
The art of beauty in formless anonymity?

I wonder, why does life steal
These endless pleasures of time we so feel?

I wonder if I wonder too much.

[Author's Note: Thank you, A, for giving my eyes the beauty that is IMG_2590, and thank you, another A, for making it.]

Somewhere...

Somewhere a lonely glowworm shatters a darkness. Somewhere an eager voice sings a breathless melody. Somewhere old age heaves a sigh after a tiring tryst with triviality. Somewhere a creeper learns to defy gravity, and charts its own course. Somewhere a world suddenly goes silent, as if trying to listen to itself breathe. Somewhere a sun breathes its last before being engulfed by a sea for the night. Somewhere god plays ball with a dew drop on the contours of a leaf. Somewhere a baby crackles with innocent laughter at the sound of a rattle. Somewhere a sky tiptoes past its angry clouds on a stormy night. Somewhere a breeze blows the petals off a withering flower, burying them in air. Somewhere love is lost, found, made, lost and found again. Somewhere ice breaks, and a glacier crumbles into a blueness. Somewhere a blind flutters across the dusty window of an empty house. Somewhere a fisherman pushes out into a blue darkness, trying to pacify an angry morning. Somewhere a red dot turns amber, and a world rears to life, ready to escape. Somewhere, drenched in rain, a pain comes to terms with itself. Somewhere a wooden bird traipses out of a broken cuckoo clock, as if out of habit. Somewhere a lonesome stranger on a deserted street crashes onto his knees in the dust. Somewhere an aircraft breaks into a cloud, splintering thin air. Somewhere a crowd breaks into a chorus, rhapsodical throats conjuring up a bowl of ecstasy. Somewhere a butterfly flames across a lake's surface, sinking into the colours of its own reflection. Somewhere a lost childhood bursts into life amidst a cacophony of memories. Somewhere a world sleeps, knowing that somewhere else, a world doesn't.

Somewhere, imprisoned by space and time, a mind tirelessly dreams on, imagining a world into existence, churning out vignettes, wrapping them up in its humble words. Somewhere else, a mind wakes up to those dreams, unwrapping the humble gifts that are words, realising space and time, releasing a world into existence.

In Transit

One lonesome thursday evening,
Entombed in glass,
Staring into the eyes of a foreign land

As a night came to life in its blinding lights,
As red watermelon flesh melted in the warmth of my lips,
As a stranger's scent parleyed with my senses,
As an escalator lived its own death,

I saw Chapman's Ithaca,
Lost my heart in the empty streets of Buenos Aires,
Smarted at the taste of eternal darkness,
Rode the sea's whiteness with your friend Melville
And felt time's sands trickle through my fingers.

Stranded in the middle of everywhere
I was no one, I was every one.

As I read you, Jorge Luis Borges,
As I read you.

[8 32 pm | 12/03/2009 | Bangalore]

In defiance of monotony

Mornings. Evenings.
Here. There.
In. Out.
Black. White.
You. Me.

Again. And again. Over and over again.
The same as yesterday. And the day before.
The same tomorrow. And the day after.
Just different garbs, different times, different names, different places, different faces.

Templates for a life. For a world.
Alluring monotonies. Ready made existences.
Waiting for me to plug into them. And switch myself off.

I shall not give in. No, not to this. I shall not.

I shall not sit by and watch as this world chews me up and spits me out. I shall not learn acceptance. I shall not be subsumed by peripheries. I shall not be lost in the multitudes. I shall not be tamed into submission.

I shall not be taught habit.
I shall belong to nothing. No time. No name. No place. No face.

I shall not give in. I shall breach the confines of the routine. I shall not give in. I shall disown my inheritance. I shall not give in. I shall shatter convention. I shall not give in. I shall scream these walls aside. I shall not give in. I shall tear down traditions.

Let them make me the outcast, taint my reality and condemn me to the shadows, I shall not be contained. I shall be the stain on the face of eternity, the battle cry that brings down an empire, the fervour that ignites the flame. Of this tyranny, nothing shall remain. Bottom lines shall be decimated, facades shall be ripped apart and fate shall be subdued at the altar of subversion. There shall be no restraint, flames shall engulf worlds and ravage them, leaving infernos in their wake. I shall soar beyond gravity's grasp, beyond chance, beyond fear, beyond destiny, beyond mediocrity, and watch coldly as history goes up in flames and dissolves into the dust beneath my feet.

Timeless, they shall forsake me.
Nameless, they shall forget me.
Faceless, they shall consume me.

But no, to this monotony, I shall not give in. I shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not shall not.

Life, in a sentence.

Born into the all-encompassing singularity of the capital i, seized by space, stung by life, we wake up to obscurity and stretch across confines, feeding on dreams, gliding through ignorance, gathering selves along the way, wriggling out of childhoods into what lies next, wriggling out of what lies next into whatever else lies next, subsuming multitudes, emerging a different i only to be signified by the same i, learning to forget that we're compelled to crawl through time, we know what we know, yet we go on with the business of living, we live on, through births, through deaths, through indifferent mornings, through ecstatic evenings, through presences, through absences, through pain, through bliss, through friends, through strangers, through hate, through indifference, through love, never letting up even for a moment, weaving in, weaving out, irrepressibly at work on the fabric of time, toiling away at that one never-ending memory we know we shall never get to reflect back on, that one reality that reaffirms us that we have not been in vain, that one grand legacy we wish to bequeath to the endless universe, that one and only entity that knew how it felt to be the undeniably singular i, all for the solitary ambition of stumbling onto that one moment we live for, that crowning blaze of glory, that one period the weary sentence of life so achingly craves for, that one blinding instant the i coruscates before our eyes before vanishing into the amorphous textures of light that make up eternity.

Confession

In the corner of a bookstore,
One unmemorable evening,
I walked by a coffee table book
As a stranger stirred behind it.

I wished it was you.

The ardent conversationalist

The dreaded silence.
His turn to listen now.
To wait out the silence, to take words in.

Silence he knows won't go away.
For a moment there's that image, that ephemeral hope that he has finally deciphered the silences but he knows, as he always knows, everything is still the same.

Bleeding words as he searches himself for a silence, squirming about in the anarchy of the lull, he knows, he knows the futility only too well. Traipsing aimlessly through time seeking to create more of it, crumbling in the uncertainty of the wordlessness only to realise that he is condemned to forever drown in the pool of words that punctuates his thoughts and his silence, he knows. It is easier to make words than to wait for them to return.

"Talk, my dear, talk", he exhorts eloquently, "being silent is one of those resounding crimes in life."

The joy of bending words to terpsichorean whims, of weaving thoughts into their substance, of pouring life into them in sentences, of letting them out into a silence and embellishing it with the beauty of the spoken word... The pride, and the pleasure, they all tell him the same thing, that one simple yet undeniable truth that words are heavier than silence.

To spiral through days, to find revelations in daily greetings, to elicit love from windy windows, to plant memories inside conversations, to thrive on moments stolen from words and words stolen from moments, isn't that what time merits from its remorseless assassins? The sound of a word escaping the lips, isn't that what true beauty aspires to? To say a word and receive another in return, isn't this bartering of the most basic of emotions the greatest thing about being human?

Forced to curtail the irrepressible flow of words and left to lament the tyranny of time, burning up in solitude and silence and sweating to contain these words inside him, he asks himself, did it have to be so hard?

Like standing at the centre of a paper-thin glacier. Like groping about the walls of a dark room, searching for a switch to illuminate the darkness. Like screaming into a ravaging tornado.

But he knows, all that he knows, he knows because he's had the luxury of silences, of silences understanding enough to let him digest his words, words which wouldn't be what they were if it wasn't for the existence of the silences they broke.

Silences hushing words, words ripping silences apart, silences in words, words in silences... Silences and words, those two strange bedfellows, incessantly at argument, always driving each other apart yet forever in the throes of one another, possessors of strangely intertwined destinies.

For now, he is the ardent conversationalist and he shall play his part.
To just sit there and wait for the words to return. One after the other.
And patiently wait until there shall be no words left to wait for anymore.

The reluctant conversationalist

The dreaded silence.
His turn to speak now.
To fill the silence, to put words out.

Words he knows won't come.
For a moment there's that mirage, that eternal hope that the words have finally forgiven him but he knows, as he always knows, everything is still the same.

Bleeding silences while he searches himself for a sound, a self-loathing smile trying to keep the pain at bay, he knows, he knows his futility only too well. Fretting, sputtering, stuttering, clutching at cunningly evasive words, tripping over himself, fishing about for redemption only to realise he's condemned to forever choke in the hush that lies between his thoughts and his voice, he knows. It's easier to listen to words than to try to make them.

"Listen, my dear, listen", he mouths soundlessly, "speaking is one of those silent crimes in life."

The pain of wrestling with words, of weaving meaning into their spines, of stringing their lifelessness together into sentences, of finally thrusting them onto a silence and tarnishing it with the abrasion of the spoken word... The shame, and the guilt, they all tell him the same thing, that one simple yet undeniable truth that silence is heavier than words.

To tumble through life, to find meanings in empty spaces, to extract life from the stillness of chaos, to nestle silent selves into memory and to thrive on moments stolen from silences and silences stolen from moments, isn't that what time merits from its remorseless assassins? A hushed breath in a silence, isn't that what true beauty aspires to? To extend a calm and receive another in return, isn't this expression of a wordless understanding the greatest thing about being human?

Waiting for elusive words to arrive and left to smile at faces when all he wants is a blissful silence, smarting amidst the words, burdened with the inexpressible silence inside him, he asks himself, did it have to be so hard?

Like being a dot of ink irrevocably rooted to the centre of a white paper. Like in a battlefield, scratching and scarring every time. Like learning to breathe underwater.

But he knows, all that he knows, he knows it only because he has had the luxury of words, of the beauty of words shattering innocent silences, silences which wouldn't be what they were if it wasn't for the inexistence of the words they lacked.

Words ripping silences apart, silences hushing words, words in silences, silences in words... Words and silences, those two strange bedfellows, incessantly at argument, always driving each other apart yet forever in the throes of one another, possessors of strangely intertwined destinies.

For now, he is the reluctant conversationalist and he shall play his part.
To just sit there, and wait for the silences to return. One after the other.
To patiently wait until there shall be no silences left to wait for anymore.

090309

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.

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.

Blur

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.

Another.

Insouciance.
A slow death, a sudden life.

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?