Horseshit

Pakkhiwas

2011-06-24T02:22:00.001+05:00

It seems abhorrent, so profane, the attempt at articulation of pulse but then again, there is no alternative to communication now, is it? As the sea and the sea of sand engulf the space I nervously saunter on, I fidget to figure out the unease that palls my heart—the trembleintheeye .
My friend, my bane, with a towering frame, we are together for better or for worse, for now.
Within the veins that run gasoline, do you not see the the beatifiction of a million maggots and the illoveries they chew and threw?
I wonder about this face of yours, this taste of yours for the knife.
On thurstday night, the parasitynight you paint it bright with flashyflash, in a gluttering dash.
You look so proud so incessantly cared only to watsch it all scared lest I hear the deafeatning howl—horrolific ululation from a plundered ghoul.

As I pack my bags and we bid adieus, I question the relationship we have (Or rather you have with so many of us Pakkhiwases). I am not oblivious to the irony: I feed the monster I deride.

2011-01-27T14:33:00.001+05:00

If I can't fly a kite when I want to because my government can pass a law to limit that, doesn't it diminish my liberty ?
Where does it stop ? Is executive/judicial over-reach a concept too alien to us or we don't see that if we let government legislate bits of our personal lives under pressure from religious right, we will loose even the sense of liberty ?
It shouldn't be a liberal cause, it should be everyone's.

Veena Malik, you go girl

2011-01-23T02:02:00.002+05:00

She just kicked that stupid Mullah's ass.

Oh my God! It was pure ecstasy to watch her rip that ass apart.

We anonymous Fucktards & Salman Taseer

2011-01-05T12:38:00.007+05:00

When religious birds threw their stones ripping the flesh, baring the bones
You stood tall, you bore our cross and the crowd waved and laughed

What celebration, what joyous glee; another blasphemy; another blood spree
and round and round the fervor goes; heaven's winds, seventy two hoors

And we stand aside, the silent and tamed ; impotent bastards spineless and shamed
We bicker and moan and raise a ruckus; as long as no-one names our names

(whatever happened to principle, us fucks)

And hence Salam Taseer died; Twenty seven bullets lodged in his body. Yeah, I see the irony of reversing the number to seventy two, the same number of virgins that asshole dreamt of before pulling the trigger.
And what do we secular intellectuals do? We fucking moan anonymously.

Yes, the sky is not red today, nor the black engulfs the air
A little blood on an Islamabad street, its not Armageddon, they say

These people with their buckets of God
These people, the idiots, we've stayed away …

We still rather sit on this cozy sofa, with our fancy books
Animated rage, vanilla cappuccino, blogs we type away

Deep in shit, in this joke of our yoke
Lets light a candle for this black day

For what else can cowards like us do?

Marriage, Wall Clocks and Molvi Sahab

2009-04-07T11:31:00.003+05:00

Its been a month since we got married.
And cliches apart, I hadn't had that much laughter in any month in my life time.
To summarize the laughter, I have but two words... Wall clocks and molvi sahab...
Its been fun and it will continue to be...

Tagged

2008-11-09T23:58:00.002+05:00

I generally dont respond to tags but Majaz is going to kill me if I dont, this time around
Anyway, here it is

You have to write

Three things which you pride yourself upon.

Reason
I dont lie for anyone's approval.
Majaz

Three things you hate about yourself.

I love myself.:S

Three things that you can't let go of.

Eventually, you have to. So rationally speaking, that I CAN let go of almost anything.

Three things that you love to eat.

Lamb-chops medium rare.
PorterHouse or Tbone medium rare/medium
Mutton Karahi

Three things you cannot possibly eat in a million years.

Snakes
Dogs
Rats

Three songs you could sing to the rest of the world.

I cant sing

Three movies you would show if you had your way around Film Festivals.

Through a Glass Darkly
Taxi Driver
Kill Bill

The question of negation of time and God’s ruthlessness

2008-11-04T16:34:00.002+05:00

1)
The concept of reality, as nonexistent but as a perception is absurdly absurd, but then again it is not possible to quantify reality in measurable units, (even if it was so, those units would be first perceptions).

2)
I’ve believed somewhat, there is no other way of, no different way of putting those questions here; of scribbling down the confusions that have already begun to take shape: as molds of faith. Misfortunes of our kind and paradoxes associated with those have a long history of becoming: we substitute childhood for innocence, childhood which has an incomplete history.
Adam and Eve, cherished in ignorance/innocence imposed as an obligation with-out a childhood, and sinned ( Lets not get into the theory of sin again, just imagine they did) only to come to terms with reason and their non-existent childhood, and for centuries now, we cherish the fragility of our offspring: we carry the burden of void of Their lives. Imagine being thrust to adulthood, naked and in shame, but without a single memory or memento of ever being a child. Or did God create, as he created Adam and Eve, a false history of their being ex nihilo? And if so, such false scars from a non-existent childhood, such memories, wouldn’t it be unfair of god himself to impose such a terrible lie on his own Adam? And if for instant, say such memories did exist, of a time that didn’t, extrapolating the idea over the length of history, past has been a collection of memories only, and future hasn’t arrived yet and NOW is what isn’t after each instant but a memory again. If memories were conjured without the existence of actual time, such memories were flawed in their genesis and legacy of those, our memories of time, who’s to say are real or not. Thus time becomes just a logical fallacy, something that is believed to exist but doesn’t.
All such imaginations, imaginative as those maybe, will remain incongruous, in all effectual descriptions mere perceived misprisions, reflecting one’s own personal interaction with alienation and their supposed understanding of that, for there is no Post-Adam method of understanding Adam or understanding God was never transparent to begin with.

And for the lack of my ability to put it in the words I want to, I need to go back in time to borrow Borges's confusion and ultimately resignition

“Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire. The world, unfortunately, is real; I, unfortunately, am Borges."

Love in the times of Cholera, the movie.

2008-10-06T18:09:00.003+06:00

Where do I begin?
It was a worthless piece of ridiculous film making.

I have never been a fan of Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
His supposed grand tale of unrequited love is generally hailed as a masterpiece and some four or five years back when I first read it, I found it overwhelmingly disappointing. Frankly, no matter how much the critics loved it, I couldn’t get around the idea of two 70 years old people consummating their love in most graphical of depictions beautiful or even remotely agreeable and how could after fucking virtually everything in sight, you still believe that you are a virgin is somehow the height of love is totally beyond me. People who haven’t read the novel may find me exaggerating, but it’s true that our protagonist keeps a record of women he slept with and the final number was above six hundred, believing that he is still a virgin. Also, the novel’s sappiness couldn’t be tolerated over 400 pages, at least I couldn’t. Hearing a sappy song for 5 minutes is fine but to read through such a heap of lurvvvvvv and the idiotic glory was too much for me.
Marquez’s technique suffers from a common syndrome amongst supposed greats (All the Russians for example): to go on an on. Unlike Joyce, or Nabokov the story telling takes precedence over prose and imagination runs wild, but unfortunately doesn’t go far enough much like a 5 year old running wild but staying in his backyard. The emphasis is not on the sentence, but on the images he is trying to create, and too many words are wasted. Personally I like prose where words, each word matter and each sentence, the sound of sentence has a place in the over all structure of the story. I fell in love with Toni Morrison’s Paradise on her first sentence, and for that matter don’t think I’d ever forget the opening of Satanic Verses or the ending of Ulysses. You take a ‘yes’ out and prose is not the same, unlike Marquez, where you can easily skip a chapter where “Florentino Ariza” manages to fuck twenty women, without missing a thing.

On personal scale, the novel was 3 out of 10 in my ratings.

So, when I started with the movie, my expectations were already low. But still the movie was such a colossal fuck, that I was surprised. Yeah, I don’t like the story, but at least the film-making could be better. I still have no idea why the director decided to chose two different actors for playing the same character in their 20s and 30s, who have no resemblance whatsoever and even their accents are different? I can’t get around the fact that while at 70, our heroine’s whole body is old, but her legs and hands look so fresh (The makeup was worse than any B movie). The movie jumps from one scene to another, totally incoherently, and for all the vices that I found in the prose, at least it was coherent.

People with glorified version of love may like the movie, but for me, if love is what it is as portrayed in the film, love itself is cholera, because certainly it does make you nauseas.

Over-all, it was a must-stay-away-from movie. I can’t bring myself to give it a single point on a scale of 0-10 and a total waste of time and money.

Life on Mars and Ashes to Ashes

2008-08-16T17:01:00.007+06:00

“ Your son Mrs. Bathurst was a cold-hearted killer and if there’s a hell, he’s going there to be poked up the arse with sharp fiery sticks forever and ever, Amen”
(DCI-Gene Hunt in Life on Mars)

I am not usually a fan of Television, with exception of bastard characters such as House
And now I have a new addition on my list—DI Gene Hunt.

I was absolutely blown away with the serial. Show Series Arabia has done its best to confuse me though, as its running both “Life on Mars” and its spin off “Ashes to Ashes “back to back, so it becomes difficult to keep the chronology straight.

But anyway, though genre (a collage of time travel and police procedural) is nothing new, the approach is fresh and the acting is superb, both by our protagonist Sam Tyler and DI Gene Hunt.
Its spin off, Ashes to Ashes, is not too bad either. Sam Tyler is replaced by a female character Alex Drake, and the year is 1981, not 1973.
I am trying to avoid details for it may spoil the fun of few readers of this blog. But Life on Mars is a must see… Especially before its American version hits the screens, which no matter how good, could never match the original series. And sad thing is, if American version becomes popular, people would never know the original one.

So get Life on Mars and watch it through and if you are still asking for more Gene, get “Ashes to Ashes” as well…

O btw, did I mention music?

Update:

NO NO NO
after seeing this
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GBHvkoDnOE
I feel sick
The American versions will only be dumbed up version of the original.
It will be a disgrace, a shame ...
FOr the love of god, why would they remake it anyway:@

2008-07-09T07:24:00.001+06:00

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”

Remember the dreams, old dreams, of crimson skies and velvet wavelets before I become death. No, I won’t bother with the paradox of the end or the beginning, or the edacity in the infinitude of repetitions, No it’s not theorizing, it’s only a remembrance of sky that once was crimson.
Before the realization or the question of being hits, where and when all is plausible and the sky is crimson.
In another life, in another world, I could’ve raged against the dying of the light.
Could’ve.

Imagining, travelling the time and space, watching the galaxies unfold and to stare in God's eyes.
The night is pleasantly cold, it rained today, and too bad I know it’s not the tears of angels.

2008-05-11T13:25:00.002+05:00

For years now , I've admired the whole concept of commedia dell'arte.
And seeing the streched fake smile of Hillary Clinton, its like a character has come to life from there:) Only, its hard to establish, she is more ugly, more ridiculous or more scary.

I cant wait for democratic race to be over, not that I care for america, but people, I do wacth TV and I dont need to see that frightening clown every time I switch to CNN.

Verbalizing a stream of consciousness

2008-04-19T05:45:00.005+05:00

What ?

Various muted whispers, stone causing concentric circles over the surface of a stagnant lake, flickering lamp and varying gradations of light and shadow, what meaning, what insinuations, what innuendoes, when standing right in front of you, I am conveniently invisible?

In what constellations did tiny particles of hope align, within the miasma of isolation?
In what lines did narration and fantasy coincide?

How?
To hope, to cling onto—how, by what technique, by what principle, in infinitude of incertitude, a justification materializes?

By various revisited mazes patterns of a unnavigable labyrinth emerge my very own personal labyrinth where each destination or the temporary illusion of it screameth “whither”, to where, to which corner, and each scream trapped in the high walls (Oh yes your highness, walls higher than the moon) resonates and ultimately synchronizes itself with all others in my garden of timeless echoes.

A justification?
Of limitation of language, the inconsistent structure (why not no onomatopoeic word for orgasm?), the constant struggle in search of a meaning, of words, of sentences, of whispers and of our lives (if that has a meaning), somnolent prayers, incipient resignation, imaginary osculation, still less action more contemplation, incapacity at terroritoriztion (Yes you can cut your heart in two, all you need is time), the face of her father, the distance in her eyes.

Silent nights… A mocha latte, extreme rare steak (what? Suddenly an aversion to tasting blood), concomitant euphoria with hints of nausea or vice versa (One or the other would kick in first, but my dear, wait for the other). Isn’t it a great time discussing vampire stories?

Reminiscence?

The balancing act, the good the bad and the ugly, a partial amnesia doesn’t bite either, and time… How time will obliterate these memories, equally but differently in protagonist and the author?

But to hell with that all.
She is tired, she needs to sleep.

2008-04-12T00:12:00.002+05:00

Well, Pakistani politics has always been stupid but after reading this http://www.app.com.pk/en_/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=35290&Itemid=2
cant help laughing.
There is a limit to cheap drama and total idiocity, but MQM bhai loog seem to have gotten past that long ago:D
I ofcourse dont like anyone in politics, but I dont hate anyone as much as I hate this guy.
Altaf Hussain is a fucking cartoon.

She’ll become His Echo.

2008-04-06T16:51:00.004+05:00

In a darkly dreaming reality, she’d place him: the heat rending song of silence and regret, see the monotones in this over-played, dully acted opera, where the range of rage of beautiful but gutless prima donna causes, if anything a soporific ennui.

She wants to remain a three thousand piece puzzle that never assembled, never figured out for the fragmentation colours her existence and completion obliterates her.

All women are mothers in one way or the other, but those who choose to adopt 25 year old babies, instead of pushing someone out their vagina or breastfeeding command commemoration. The degree of denial, and the heights to which you can lower your vanity to, may not be something that thrills me, but on some fucked up meter that measures these, that is some fucking achievement.
Some sentences love repetitions, some stories need to be re-told.
And the perception of these mechanical permutations, these told and retold old fables, the label of a cliché and stereotypes, escapes from it. After a while, we pantomime interpretations, and with elusive new awakenings ensure the survival of our bloody becoming in the cesspit of love and all things great—A hilarious subterfuge, but still what a shining dust of undead clichés.

On a lighter note, amidst all the cigarette burns, and broken nose, what is that she ever did different? Was asked about reason. Did deny the significance. Did close her eyes. Did fall in love. Did deny. Did live in between. Did choose to value distance. And how and why would it ever matter to ME: a motherless child. It shouldn’t. Not seen my mother or any mother figure ever get blown to pieces as psychologists would analyze. Never been interested in being the saviour, and never could be. It may be the patterns I hate, maybe, but that shouldn’t be about me. After all, I am writing about denial, I can choose denial and not all writing should be mirrored in self and then written again.

The infinity of vanity, and disgrace, means an insurmountable calculation of relative parameters to decide what constitutes which maybe. And then existing in between, neither here nor there but itinerant, an amorous whisper between triads of slander, a gentle kiss between angered fists, a few words that imitate care or appear to, when venom tastes sweet, words, words, words without their meaning, nay, hope none, buts lets hope for, comfort none but that comforts us, visions none of either guardian angels or spirit sancti or the devil in splendor, swimming in the intensity and stench of libels, with forgotten promises of care, multifarious collections of a thousand wounds and minute memories of a penis and making love, when she felt so revered as mother of her lover followed by another go at strangulation, and somehow something in between made it worth it?

She was torn apart. And love will tear her apart again.
And what is worse, blind love or blind lovers? For all the pain that’s been inflicted, she may love him more, organs, the fragile and flawless arms and legs that bear the bruises may make her value him more, for what good has been her life, hadn’t for the pain. What good has been the story, if lovers lived happily after?
For immortality or the illusion of it, she needs to be torn apart, to be remembered, to be painted and to be mused about, so he’ll be her Narcissus, and she’ll become his Echo.

Of Authenticity of this Connection

2008-03-01T04:03:00.005+05:00

The way desire, expectations and preconceptions influence our thematic interpretation of relations, plays havoc with any possibility of an essential connection. The imaginative effect of passing time on memories is something that troubled and fascinated me since long and in my convoluted narratives I sought immunity from it; to what extent in that seemingly insignificant effort, had I been successful, nothing can judge that, because memory can’t be videoed today and re-watched tomorrow. But I never wrote about the inherent distortion in memory to begin with. Time only adds deception to what already is maligned version of events and relations.

Living in a postmodern world with the apparent enormity of available information, results in a confused juxtaposition of notions, about every relation we ever have, about every connection we ever build.
And what fabrications these are, all lovers, all relations, we build to fit our perfect definitions for them. We conceive them to suit ourselves, our complexes, our longings and our hunger. We rob them of their existence, and re-mould those all, over years from rough diagrams to our completed masterpieces and fit them in closets, on our coffee tables, on our walls and in our beds, so that we may look from afar and see what we want to see.
This momentary accomplishment brings about a joy and sense of belonging, which inherently remains as ephemeral as the artifacts we create, and when slowly and silently, the faces we created start to erode our conquests start to crumble into disappointments. Then we start the blame game, because at some level of subconscious, we knew that this house of cards was meant to fall apart. We pick up the pieces, sometimes worship those- the idols of our imaginations and cry for them, at other times we burn them up just to feel un-betrayed.

I’ve seldom felt betrayed in such a way, not because I didn’t create my own idols, but somehow I ended up feeling that I betrayed them. I longed for and then conceded the possibility of a connection that is not defined by the notions of ‘what and how it should be’. I wanted a connection in which I am not shamed by nakedness, my own and of whoever was before me. It’d seem almost delusional, but every passing day it feels that I have that now. Funny that a stupid urge arisen from query of a colleague about never doing a socially questionable act, leads me to the conclusion. I may be delusional again, but this time it at least seems real.
Have we done it? Instead of creating a mold to substitute for a connection, have we actually built a connection? The time seems to favour that, as over the years the banalities kept fading away, and we kept evolving to our basic naked selves and connection seems to be getting stronger.
I am happy.

P.S
It almost seems unlike me to write in descriptive narratives instead of theorizing OUR bits. But then again, a lot has changed in 3 years, hasn’t it ? :)

Did he kiss her with kisses of his mouth ? :)

2008-01-19T03:25:00.000+05:00

A stupid question just popped up my head and now I can't sleep.

Did Solomon marry Sheba?
Widely held Islamic belief is that he did, but Quran doesn't have an exact reference.
And ofcourse, my favourite part of Bible, The Song of Solomon, has various references about the supposed love between them.
Anyone who happens to read this blog, please have your say and I am interested in the account of all three religions, i.e Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

Having said that, I'll try to sleep again now :(

Something I am working on, still Incomplete

2008-01-05T05:10:00.001+05:00

He…
He who set about to write a treatise on sadness, slowly and unseeingly has lurked beneath the darkness of his incapacity to come up with a perfect word for his inability to be sad.
The repertoire of limitlessness gives birth to a classless distaste, a sheer ennui for all minutiae of reality and a million reflections of it. One or any piece of such rotten existence sums up thoughtless vagaries of arrogance, and vanity fears, and succumbs to meaninglessness of faith or the absence of it.

Follow we must because the flowing paths of pilgrims make an eternal outcast of me, an upstream escape be cut short by the ensuing stampede that crushes all outcasts and pilgrims alike and I have yet only lived voices. I am yet described by paradoxes and questions: I am not yet my description.

A curious innocent child with shining eyes, who used to sit in the deep spatial blankness in moonlit verandahs at night, to wonder, to explicate the infinite patterns in stars has long been disfigured by images blight.
On the unsure face of his simulacrum lies resting a bestiality and ravenous desire to scavenge on dolor, to understand for once what it would mean to be truly sad.

Away! Orphan child o mine! Away! I stultify with numbness, you.

Ah! The visions of paradise and fear of hell!

We thought then, thence and thereafter, Satan shall lead us not astral through greed and desire. I know puritans would scoff at me, for losing the sense of time, of eternity of heaven and hell. They would laugh, a convulsion their laughter is, the laughter of theists, which sends me shivers down me spine. But I keep losing it. It is barely important. When we move in a circle with the speed of the sense of history, we see how imaginative and charming but deceptive and elusive idea eternity is. But Oh! These are regrets speaking. Regrets, these are beautiful egrets that fly w towards the bland translucent moon instead of the splash dash of sunset at sunset. Always felt there was something about our voices, whispers that is independent of us: but then again, what inverted times these are. Seems I’ve been going in circles.

A tale of sacrifice—a heap of crap

2008-01-02T03:27:00.000+05:00

I’ve always had an idiosyncratic sense of humour: more often mourning or exuding sadness of other people bring about fits of laughter in me. Interestingly, though I attribute such appeal to mockery and sarcasm to my own indefatigable hubris, I find narcissism and delusions of grandeur (mostly in sadness and in pain) of other people extremely comical.

Reading a tale of shattered love is always fun ( a device which according to my analysis remains by far the most popular modus operandi in blogging world, winning the race with closeted atheists and homosexuals), but recently I’ve read a piece which made me laugh even after days of reading—a classic example of rationality raped.

Our protagonist is heart-broken of course. And yes he has been mourning the lost love for ages. Of course, what is a life without a sense of loss and heartache, even if that’s an imagined one? But now in his search for grandeur, his delusions have taken a new turn. Not only he has a broken heart, an agonizing pathetic history of whining, he has assumed a new role--the most forgiving dumped lover with imagined omnipotence over the life of his unrequited love, as according to him in his fit of love or hatred, he can destroy all she has: D Now it’s actually the lowest level of stupidity, though masquerading as maturity in an impressive narrative, that I’ve come across in a while.

I don’t understand how come a act of utter desperation, not much different from a 5 year old girl who breaks her favourite doll to keep it to herself, rather than to give it to her 4 year old sister, be deemed glorious by the author, much less by a reader? And this utter animalistic desperation and selfishness is called either love or hatred, and then followed by a gigantic leap in megalomania by an assertion that not doing so is a sacrifice in love :D

Third rate affairs pretty much end in the same way, the jealous former lover exposing the old love letters, again an act which is idiotic as well as pathetic, how come not being a cry-baby for once translates into sacrifice in the name of ‘love’ is beyond me. The funny part is that the author actually is so deluded that he believes in his own crap and has added one memorabilia in his trophy closet. With Pain, Sadness, Lost love, there now rests Sacrifice, a collection of themes for his epic life, which to me appears only a pile of delusion that smells funny.
Can’t help laughing.

P.S
It’s been a conscious effort on my part to conceal the identity of said author, but in case anyone finds out (including that author), this post wasn’t meant to be a disgrace. Just that, it was becoming too hard to laugh silently. I do admire his narrative, it is just his delusions and subject that I find funny.

Cant get enough of Borges :)

2007-12-06T04:08:00.000+05:00

Even in my umpteenth re-reading of the single book I have of the old man, he manages to fascinate every time.
He said that he imagines Paradise as a library, and I imagine Paradise with his infinite narratives:)

Bergman on Imperfection of faith as well as denial

2007-12-04T20:56:00.000+05:00

I’ve seen some of Bergman’s movies before, his perceived masterpieces, Persona and Cries and Whispers, as well as the faith trilogy and Autumn Sonata.
The most recent addition was The Seventh Seal and one of the most powerful dialogue sequence made me smile.
I went back to my blog and re-read Pantomime and Sultry mornings
and wondered, would I have written these had I watched the movie before or the self imposed compulsion of sounding original and incomprehensible—part vanity, part fear—even in most universal of conundrums might have stopped me. It seems funny, when no one reads this blog anymore, I am giving away the key to two of narratives, which I tried so desperately to conceal.

Anyways, here is some part of our protagonist’s confession to death, disguising as a priest.

Block: Is it so hard to conceive God with one's senses? Why must He hide in a midst of vague promises and invisible miracles? How are we to believe the believers when we don't believe ourselves? What will become of us who want to believe but cannot? And what of those who neither will nor can believe? Why can I not kill God within me? Why does He go on living in a painful, humiliating way? I want to tear Him out of my heart, but He remains a mocking reality which I cannot get rid of. Do you hear me?
Priest/Death: I hear you.
[Block turns to kneel before the priest behind the confessional screen.]
Block: I want knowledge. Not belief. Not surmise. But knowledge. I want God to put out His hand, show His face, speak to me.
Priest/Death: But He is silent.
Block: I cry to Him in the dark, but there seems to be no one there.
Priest/Death: Perhaps there is no one there.
Block: Then life is a senseless terror. No man can live with Death and know that everything is nothing.
Priest/Death: Most people think neither of Death nor nothingness.
Block: Until they stand on the edge of life and see the Darkness.
Priest/Death: Ah, that day.
Block: [laughs bitterly] I see. We must make an idol of our fear, and call it God.

2007-11-15T11:51:00.000+05:00

Times have changed and in these times, I don’t read at all. It’s been an year or so since I last read a book.

But still there are temptations I succumb badly and sometimes embarrassingly to. For example, anyone reading anything around me, I just have to know what it is :)
For those who knew me in my passionate days would know that is a small left-over from an addiction that mesmerized me for years though has left me now, but still with cravings.
Anyway, on my flight back home, saw a woman reading 'The Inheritance of Loss', and I, again quite stupidly sneaked around her until I found the name of the book. And during a boring shopping day with elder sister in main market, I walked into a bookshop for second hand books, while she was fighting with the tailor, and found that for 75 RS.
I haven't read it; I am not even keen on reading it.
But it starts with a passage of Borges, a passage I hadn't read before.
How bad can it be when Kiran Desai has read Borges?
I am not sure when would I read it, maybe I won't. But I know, even if it’s as bad as her mother's, I won't be hating it.

Here's Borges' Boast of Quietness

'Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside.
Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them.
Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air.
Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack.
They speak of humanity.
My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty.
They speak of homeland.
My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword,
the willow grove’s visible prayer as evening falls.
Time is living me.
More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude.
They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
My name is someone and anyone.
I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn’t expect to arrive'

Two pieces

2007-10-11T06:25:00.000+05:00

After quite a while I jumbled up my first narrative in months and then another and read these. Then re-read both.
They don’t flow. (Its funny, how for me, above anything –verbiage, theme etc—flow mattered)
Why? I don’t know.

On a sidenote, I wish 'nakefeet' start writing again.
And had to go back to Valium after years...

anyway here they are...

On Reminiscence, and the writing that flows:

Not all means. Not all is a confession. But it’s a making, making of silence that sweeps through, carried on wings of Notus, the calmness after the storm has passed, and in for this silence all angels and satans alike, seek refuge in the every bosom of God crying over their deafness. What good could be a hymn or a curse without hearing when you utter it? Immortals are not Beethoven; they can’t create music they cant hear.But what this silence brings to us, the innumerable children it bears, 1001 for ever soul, for these souls they feed on, functional vampires drinking enough just not to kill, but suck the soul out of our souls.
I had these children, my children, but I am alone now. Sometimes I hear them giggling, calling out my name, as I bleed out through all the pores in the sun, inciting them, inviting them to come back to me and feed on my soul.
Nostalgia or the absence of it—who knew not having a pain is painful as hell.
They left one in me, one that hopes that one day they’ll return, sailing on cotton clouds and spring breeze, scream out their delight and make me write the writing that flows. They’ll carry me that day, above the hovering winds, and that day I won’t die.

The Differential of touch:

Read your name on my lips as I struggle to say it, shivering in the coldness of my heart. You said we made love in this snow; I only feared the fatality of an embrace. You said you touched my hands in the dark; I only washed the blood on your thighs. You said the laughter was real; I searched for the screams of agony beneath it.
Your glistening hair brushing against my face etched bleeding paths of grace or disgrace on my destiny.
Few moments, always fewer words to say of differential of touch and obscure eyes.

Colours fade, but they won’t vanish
I’ve learned that—that’s the night and the shroud. That is my fear, of making you all that has to be-becoming of anticipation.
I wish a return to innocence, not vampire stories, not losing religions, not cupid arrows, to the first language that there ever was, before God taught me the names of all things. To revert back the evolutionary corruption to 'this' language, to be with you before the start of time, to know you and wonder to come up a word for us, and experience your touch, not knowing what to call it.
Imagine me, in front of four thousand galaxies, forty million years ago, as we approach the elusive the definitions of touch, of embrace.

Of 14th April.

2007-04-06T18:21:00.000+05:00

What will cometh, in after a turn-play of eight days and nights, is not the end we sought with such perseverance and love but a promise of its realization (given a continuity of breaths and heartbeats for the years to come). We’ve come afar, over the years, of times when we clogged our consciences with imaginary dirt and realized that in that hypothesized descent we found the elevation of our souls. I prepare for the day with hopes and longings, taking hours to decide what to wear and how to smell, and reservations that this is day I’d be judged by people who loved you and claimed you till now.

When of glory, our story lacks it. No lengthy blogs can be written about a happy ending for it’s the flagellation (or the pretension of it) that is deemed glorious. We couldn’t have a fetish for sadness and hence the muse that draws admiration from similar imbeciles. Remember, right from the first day, we knew we’d make it work. Right from the first day, we laughed at the heart-wrenching tales of those seekers of sadness who remain totally oblivious that their tales of tears were not the mourning for a lost love but a celebration of the love they found—that funny trail of clichés and blood.

Of sacrifices again, we don’t have the scars to prove anything. We did whatever had to be done without a vestige of regret, so then again no ‘real sacrifice’ and no glory. I am so fortunate to have found you love, for you sought togetherness for togetherness, not for the pain that resides in its shattered debris

Of memories, we made some—rich, aromatic and blissful. Memories that’ll stay with us not for the things we did, for all that will be nothing new in coming years of growing old, but for the inexplicable dilemmas we faced in their making, the tremble and uncertainty of approaching each other and sensations that has never left us since. Such grownup children we were then.
Looking afar still, instead of weaving fantasies of perfect day, we care more about the things that can go wrong. And perhaps that feeling will never let us be free, but then again, better being together then being free. I’ve lost my eloquence over the years, and patience to find a line that fits; some otherday maybe, when I’ll have a day for myself I’d search for it. Till then, in these incoherent lines and such unimpressive narrative, I wanted to say, Happy Engagement. We've come through :)

P.S.
I remember what to throw at whom-literature at your dad, movies at your brother and jokes at your friends and all. In all that, I hope I get a moment alone to say something to you, something that is not so carefully pre-thought.

2007-02-28T12:45:00.000+05:00

And finally Scorsese got an Oscar. Its a shame: Academy didn't nominate the guy for Taxi Driver, didn't give him for Raging Bull and now they honour him for The Departed.
A total shame :S

Wish you were here.

2007-02-14T14:29:00.000+05:00

Anyone noticed the gloom in the air of Lahore today?
From the dark sky and seething susurration of cold winds through the tress, from the lifeless brouhaha on the roads to midgets pretending to be in love, everything is fading as a smoke ring would do.

Wish you were here. Not because it is Valentine's day, which I never believed in, but because today only you could rid me of the sadness of this city.

A Passage from Eco's Foucault's Pendulum.

2007-01-15T14:10:00.000+05:00

I’ve seen your files, Pow, Lia said to me, because I have to keep them in order. Whatever your Diabolicals have discovered is already here: take a good look. And she patted her belly, her thighs, her forehead; with her spread legs drawing her skirt tight, she sat like a wet nurse, solid and healthy she so slim and supple with a serene wisdom that illuminated her and gave her a matriarchal authority.

Pow, archetypes don’t exist; the body exists. The belly inside is beautiful, because the baby grows there, because your sweet cock, all bright and jolly, thrusts there, and good, tasty food descends there, and for this reason the cavern, the grotto, the tunnel are beautiful and important, and the labyrinth, too, which is made in the image of our wonderful intestines. When somebody wants to invent something beautiful and important, it has to come from there, because you also came from there the day you were born, because fertility always comes from inside a cavity, where first something rots and then, lo and behold, there is a little man, a date, a baobab.

And high is better than low, because if you have your head down, the blood goes to your brain, because feet stink and hair doesn’t stink as much, because it’s better to climb a tree and pick fruit than end up underground, food for worms, and because you rarely hurt yourself hitting something above you really have to be in an attic, while you often hurt yourself falling. That’s why up is angelic and down devilish.

But because what I said before, about my belly, is also true, both things are true, down and inside are beautiful, and up and outside are beautiful, and the spirit of Mercury and Manichean-ism have nothing to do with it. Fire keeps you warm and cold gives you bronchial pneumonia, especially if you’re a scholar four thousand years ago, and therefore fire has mysterious virtues besides its ability to cook your chicken. But cold preserves that same chicken, and fire, if you touch it, gives you a blister this big; therefore, if you think of something preserved for millennia, like wisdom, you have to think of it on a mountain, up, high (and high is good), but also in a cavern (which is good, too) and in the eternal cold of the Tibetan snows (best of all). And if you then want to know why wisdom comes from the Orient and not from the Swiss Alps, it’s because the body of your ancestors in the morning, when it woke and there was still darkness, looked to the east hoping the sun would rise and there wouldn’t be rain.

Yes, Mama.

Yes indeed, my child. The sun is good because it does the body good, and because it has the sense to reappear every day; therefore, whatever returns is good, not what passes and is done with. The easiest way to return from where you’ve been without retracing your steps is to walk in a circle. The animal that coils in a circle is the serpent; that’s why so many cults and myths of the serpent exist, because it’s hard to represent the return of the sun by the coiling of a hippopotamus. Furthermore, if you have to make a ceremony to invoke the sun, it’s best to move in a circle, because if you go in a straight line, you move away from home, which means the ceremony will have to be kept short. The circle is the most convenient arrangement for any rite, even the fire-eaters in the marketplace know this, because in a circle everybody can see the one who’s in the center, whereas if a whole tribe formed a straight line, like a squad of soldiers, the people at the ends wouldn’t see. And that’s why the circle and rotary motion and cyclic return are fundamental to every cult and every rite?

Yes, Mama?

We move on to the magic numbers your authors are so fond of. You are one and not two, your cock is one and my cunt is one, and we have one nose and one heart; so you see how many important things come in ones. But we have two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, my breasts, your balls, legs, arms, buttocks. Three is the most magical of all, because our body doesn’t know that number; we don’t have three of anything, and it should be a very mysterious number that we attribute to God, wherever we live. But if you think about it, I have one cunt and you have one cock, shut up and don’t joke and if we put these two together, a new thing is made, and we become three. So you don’t have to be a university professor or use a computer to discover that all cultures on earth have ternary structures, trinities.

But two arms and two legs make four, and four is a beautiful -number when you consider that animals have four legs and little children go on all fours, as the Sphinx knew. We hardly have to discuss five, the fingers of the hand and then with both hands you get that other sacred number, ten. There have to be ten commandments because, if there were twelve, when the priest counts one, two, three, holding up his fingers, and comes to the last two, he’d have to borrow a hand from the sacristan.

Now, if you take the body and count all the things that grow from the trunk, arms, legs, head, and cock, you get six; but for women it’s seven. For this reason, it seems to me that among your authors six is never taken seriously, except as the double of three, because it’s familiar to the males, who don’t have any seven. So when the males rule, they prefer to see seven as the mysterious sacred number, forgetting about women’s tits, but what the hell.

Eight....eight....give me a minute...If arms and legs don’t count as one apiece but two, because of elbows and knees, you have eight parts that move; add the torso and you have nine, add the head and you have ten. Just sticking with the body, you can get all the numbers you want. The orifices, for example.

The orifices?

Yes. How many holes does the body have?

I counted. Eyes, nostrils, ears, mouth, ass: eight.

You see? Another reason eight is a beautiful number. But I have nine! And with that ninth I bring you into the world, therefore nine is holier than eight! Or, if you like, take the anatomy of your menhir, which your authors are always talking about. Standing up during the day, lying down at night your thing, too. No, don’t tell me what it does at night. The fact is that erect it works and prone it rests. So the vertical position is life, pointing sunward, and obelisks stand as trees stand, while the horizontal position and night are sleep, death. All cultures worship menhirs, monoliths, pyramids, columns, but nobody bows down to balconies and railings. Did you ever hear of an archaic cult of the sacred banister? You see? And another point: if you worship a vertical stone, even if there are a lot of you, you can all see it; but if you worship, instead, a horizontal stone, only those in the front row can see it, and the others start pushing, me too, me too, which is not a fitting sight for a magical ceremony...

But rivers...

Rivers are worshiped not because they’re horizontal, but because there is water in them, and you don’t need me to explain to you the relation between water and the body...Anyway, that’s how we’re put together, all of us, and that’s why we work out the same symbols millions of kilometers apart, and naturally they all resemble one another. Thus you see that people with a brain in their head, if they’re shown an alchemist’s oven, all shut up and warm inside, think of the belly of the mama making a baby, and only your Diabolicals think that the Madonna about to have the Child is a reference to the alchemist’s oven. They spent thousands of years looking for a message, and it was there all the time: they just had to look at themselves in the mirror.

Dangerous Liaisons and John Malkovich

2006-12-22T14:12:00.000+05:00

Its been a while since Daniel Day Lewis' masterful portrayal of Bill the Butcher (The finest acting I've even seen) and I didn't expect to be blown away again by an acting performance.
But I was and wow, what a delightful experience that was. John Malkovich in 'Dangerous Liaisons ' is awesome. That is to say, a new entry in my top 10 list after quite some time. And irony is, like most of the others in that list, he didn't get an oscar for that. Hell he wasn't even nominated.
Anyway for all cinemaphiles, the movie should be a treat to watch.

2006-12-11T12:10:00.000+05:00

J: I dont understand why our music doesn't sound as good as the westerns
B: What do you mean?
J: Well there are so many rock bands right? All know how to play guitar. Sometimes they talk about the same themes. But something is missing. Passion or ...hmmm ... say a sense of truth. Don't yo have a theory about that ?
B: I do. Rich kids can't rock.
J: mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Right. Assholes.

2006-11-24T12:23:00.000+05:00

I am changing my blogging nick-name.

I've grown bored of permutations, and maybe He doesn't have that ONE name.
Otherwise cabalists would've found it. Its been centuries.

Pantomime

2006-11-13T16:00:00.000+05:00

Sound of a distant trumpet exudes a soporific sensation. Let the fuck begin.
At overture, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of my discomfort burgeon.
What is more frightening—the lurking vestige of incredulity in theists or residue of faith in atheists? Or maybe faith and denial are crafts that need time for perfection.
And Time is never enough Rabbi.
You remember when I first entered Gevurah on the wings of desires and you abacinated me –the moment, the anagnorisis? For in darkness shall I find that light is a recursive illusion, only the absence of dark. And what doors you put me through, the Scourge of darkness and unbearable absurdity of existence. And there was this world dissected before me confessing its being as inconsistent chaos of haphazard instances, connected to each other by mere coincidences. And history, the wonderful piece of fiction, cried over its emptiness. Theology, a subterfuge bedizened by rhythmic rhetoric and glorious fables, shed off its clothes and stood in its grotesque nakedness.
You know Rabbi, the darkness of the blind is a misty haze, coloured in innumerable shades, changing every instance with the random permutations of seven colours mixing in infinite proportions.
But then arrived my first peripeteia—those insomniac nights spent with the recurring apparitions of demons and fires of hell, when you held my hands and reassured the rational me. But I couldn’t be solaced Rabbi, until you disappeared and I hymnhummed some prayers whispered in my ear a long time ago.
I don’t remember when I lost your hand and how long I wandered alone until HE came along.
‘And then there was light.’
And in ‘our’ two act play, I bathed in my second awakening.
Darkness became my avowed nemesis. And yes there was an ephemeral peace, eyeing harmony in dissonance and a pattern in chaos. Those strolls in the garden of hesed when love shined in on me and white light illuminated my naïve soul. He disappeared too Rabbi, as you did, just when my eyes were becoming his eyes.
I finally realize it Rabbi, the con-sequence of flawed longing.
In my exacerbation, I am tirelessly fluctuating between ‘what’ and ‘what if; for a perfect faith; for a perfect denouncement. To describe my plight, there is only fright, again, and this time, I have no daedalian wings.
Its grand finale, Rabbi, it is the catastrophe, because I know now. In the sterile soil of my longing, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of order/disorder burgeon.
Now I know Rabbi, Gevurah runs in my veins.
Now I know Rabbi, I am your amaranthine protagonist, destined to be un-destined.
Now I know Rabbi, He was you.
What would you write now, but a repetition of these two acts?
Hell… lay it all to rest.

Derrida On L'mour

2006-11-08T17:42:00.000+05:00

Since I find myself incapable of writing anything lately, I am thinking of returning to the basics-to do what I was good at. Quoting people, questioning everything and talking about books and movies. That is to say, I am thinking of starting a movie/book review blog. An ode to the pieces that i adored over the years.

Well, for now, I have seen Derrida talking for the first time. Ifinally got my hands on Derrida The Movie, and yes it only fuels my fascination with the grey haired dead jew.
Here is what he says when asked about l'mour. (Reminds me of my long diatribe I had once. Someone somewhere must remember that :) )

Love is a question of who and what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some thing?

Supposing I loved someone; Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? i.e. I love you because you are you. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence?

Does one love someone, or does one love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, seperates the heart. It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is?

Often love begins with a type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realise the other person doesn't merit our love. The other person isn't like this or that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are but because they are such and such .

That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what. The question of Being, to return to philosophy- because the first question of philosophy is: what is it 'to Be'? What is 'Being'? The question of 'Being' is itself always already divided between who and what. Is 'Being' someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone - singularly, irreplaceably - and one perceives that this someone isn't x or y. They didn't have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I'd loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.

Tagged

2006-10-23T04:11:00.000+05:00

Tagged by 0rdered-chaos a.k.a Fairy Godmother.

Today...

Height: 6'2''
Color: brown with a fairish bias :D
Piercing: None
Tattoos: None But someday maybe
Right Now
Time: 0327 hours.
Mood: Bored
Taste: closeup
Weather: Well in transition. A hint of cool breeze in the moonlit night. The night has matured and its beautiful. Just that my skin is not evaporating
Bad habit: None
Current crush: A younger Madeline Stove
Biggest regret: There never was glory
Perfume(s): Jean Paul Gaultier, Eternity
Thing I want to do: At the moment? Hmmm… apart from sex eat something.
Favourite TV show: Goodness Gracious Me ( Yes its not on anymore)
Book: Currently Borges. Again.
Non alcoholic drink: Espresso
Milk drink: Espresso with a milkdrop :D
Brand: none
Color: Currently black
Emblem: none

Designer: None
Chocolate: None

Have I Ever...

Broken the law: Yes
Misused credit card: No
Fell asleep in the shower/bath: Of course I did. What else can you do on winter morns?
Had children: I hope not :D
Been in love: Yes. AM IN LOVE
Been hurt: Oh yes. Broke my nose thrice :P
Random
Have a job: Yes
My CD player has what in it right now: Media Player is playing Moonlight Sonata
If I were a crayon, the color: Someone else shall have a say
What makes me happy: Fantasizing about a lot of sex lately. That’s a typical Ramadan Syndrome btw.

When/What...

Was the LastI got a real letter: Lately …
Got an email: 3 hours ago. Junk
Thing I purchased: today. A pack of smokes
TV program I watched: Man Utd Vs Liverpool . Yes a soccer match.
Hugged: Aali…
Place I was: my room
Song heard: Before Sonata ….Beethoven’s 9th and show must go on (Queen)
Phone call: today / Appa
Was depressed: don’t remember. Must’ve been one such time waisey.

What Comes to Mind When I Hear

Car: An alto I am saving to lease right after EID
Murder: Hannibal Lecter
Cape: Martin Scorsese
Cell: Nokia 1100
Fun: Sex
Shoe: Her naked feet
Crush: Someone who had a crush that lasted too long: Omer
Music: Crying/Sex
Love: Apart from Sex ? Yea there is she....sigh
Chalk: 6th grade politics.

Alright...who do I tag? Don’t know :S

Garbage--The Trick is to keep breathing (Lyrics)

2006-10-16T23:13:00.000+05:00

Shes not the kind of girl
Who likes to tell the world
About the way she feels about herself
She takes a little time
In making up her mind
She doesn’t want to fight against the tide

Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone

Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around

Can’t bear to face the truth
So sick he cannot move
And when it hurts he takes it out on you

Lately
I’m not the only one
I say
Never trust anyone

Always the one who has to drag her down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around

The trick is to keep breathing
The trick is to keep breathing

She knows the human heart
And how to read the stars
Now everything’s about to fall apart

I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe you’ll get what you want this time around ?

I won’t be the one whos going to let you down
Maybe youll get what you want this time around ?

The trick is to keep breathing

In defense of Jacques The Ripper

2006-09-18T13:28:00.000+05:00

It’s been three years since Umayr introduced me to the late Jacques Derrida. And one year since after wrestling with his inexplicable prose, mundanities won over, distancing me with passions I cherished once. Calmness of the days and stillness of the nights can but weave a nihilistic labyrinth and before you even know, you find yourself stuck in the middle. But My otherself recently suggested that this nihilism is the only [logical] outcome of deconstruction anyway, or that is to say that Derridaean deconstruction, absurd as it may seem, can be of no use but of propagation of further absurdity or nihilism.
In that debate, every effort to deconstruct the arguments was mocked with an iterating comment, ‘It’s a shelter behind verbiage, ridiculous as the theory itself is’ so I was left with the task of ‘not being a deconstructionist, while being deconstructionist and then prove the case.’
Derrida’s critiques are mostly based upon his language and the implications of theory. Misunderstanding, both casual and predestined, and malevolence against the dread of watching the whole of canon going down the drain combine to give us furious diatribes of criticism, though unfortunately, criticizing Derrida—Applied than Derrida himself and deconstruction.

Derrida’s deconstruction stems from the identification and annihilation of "logocentrism", which is, at its core, the assumption that language is capable of expressing the reality in a fairly transparent way. The whole cognition and understanding then depends upon the language, and that’s where Derrida steps in, calling it all a delusion.
That is to say, I say something. Say Sanity. We’d like to believe that sanity is an objective state with an actual existence, Derrida would say the sanity is just a floating concept, defined in relation to its binary opposition, Insanity, and a mere ‘signifier’ which is worthless in itself, and achieves its meaning only in relation to other like signifiers. The thing out there - the actual sanity, the "signified" - is almost imperceptible; we are lost in the maze of binary oppositions that prevent us from actually experiencing reality directly.So whatever we know are only decentred small constructions that we built to develop a supposed sense of rationality and consistency.
Deconstruction became the mother of all evil for intellectuals. Why? Because it challenged everything they knew, it challenged the very concept of intellect. And then there was a furious and somewhat shameful series of attacks on Derrida and deconstruction. For some, they conjured up some logic, only to be demolished by the very concept. :) But then again, they demanded a what they call a ‘clear’ explanation.

Khair, whatever…
This is not a history lecture.
Nihilism and deconstruction… Yes, when nothing is real and truth doesn’t exist, you sink into nihilism as proposed by ‘The enlightened’. In sum Derrida is chided for believing in "the emptiness of desire, the impossibility of truth, and the fragility of the subject.”

For me the irony is that neither Derrida's critics nor his pseudo-followers have any understanding of deconstruction. Deconstruction is the perfectly free-floating signifier that is used to instantly 'shut up' in debates (somebody will yawn a little, incant the magic words such as 'deconstruction' and phrases as ‘fallacy of logocentricism ’and opponent will be befuddled.

And then of course why must ( NOT CAN) deconstruction lead us to nihilism. (To me Deconstruction was liberation). Why must by its eradication of Grand-Narratives lead us to ethical-paralysis. “Deprived of the luxury of simple formulae or pat answers we are reinvigorated as ethical agents who, while aware that meaning and right are transitory phenomena, are forever impelled to fully engage with the world as we meet it without certainty but with urgency. In this sense deconstruction would not signify the death knell for ethics but would be its birth cry.”

And as far as attacking him, on his declaration that all knowledge stemmed essentially from an assumption, why not criticize Kierkegaard's argument that all 'knowledge' rests on a "leap of faith" or Kuhn's argument that all scientific knowledge exists within a paradigm that is itself neither true nor false. They were never labeled as nihilists.

I can go on to write forever.
But I just remember I am not meaning what I REALLY wanted to mean J
I’ll love and respect deconstruction and Jacques the ripper without really understanding him. At least until I find someone, who has actually read him, and read him good…And then who could make me believe, through the same signifiers, that In reality, Reality does exist …

2006-08-23T13:35:00.000+05:00

Time changes.
Maybe you are right, people change too.
Certainly you are right, I have changed. You knew me, you do not know me.
I remember the delicious acquaintance that instigated out of a heated debate, when you stepped in as the peacemaker, and the yummy camaraderie we developed over conversazione about theory and reality and sea and to keep breathing. We debated God then, we bitched about free will and Spinoza and death and rock and roll and yes… your poetry.
Those gods that didn’t stand a chance and migraine attacks at 5 in the morning. I actually remember your nervousness about speaking in public when I couldn’t help laughing at your nasal accent.
Was there anything we didn’t bitch about? It’s hard to remember things you donot do. Aint it?
We shared what… Dead mothers, our tumultuous pasts shrouded in the mist of hearsay and fright, the limbos of our algophilia from the past that we so feared, some shattered pieces of body and soul that we gathered over the years. (Yes I remember you scarred forehead you incorrigible bitch) and a common addiction to sadness. From you nasal behanchoods and my textual batterings we established a connection, an unsaid vow to try to hurt ourselves in hurting each other. Didn’t us. But in all time I never hated you. I could never love you the way I loved her. And how could I? Could you grab love in your hand and shake it yourway? But I never hated you. I didn’t hate you when you hated me, I didn’t hate you when you ran away. Yeah and I was hurt too because you were. For not being able to give one thing that you wanted.
But now I hate you.
Not because you are on a spree of fucking every asshole that you can; not because you cant ask some miserable little piece of shit to mind her own goddamn business; not because you let ‘people’ between us and judge us. I don’t hate you because you can be a massive whore.
I hate you now because you are too fucking ugly. Gosh you are too fucking ugly now.

2006-08-12T17:59:00.000+05:00

(These are Nameseeks):

Name us, Oh please Name us.
Categorize our bit too; devise a no-man-culture. For periods of 666 years and all their iterations, Our Loneliness is desperately lonely without our identity. Haunting recollections of roasted flesh, and a trace back through the endless connections of mementos, we saw in the future a past that was, perhaps, actually the past: the name of my name on my lips. As if we were our mothers, who disappeared. In these countless years of rumination, we hadn't had our shares of prophecies... Such is the curse of our disposition: 'Eli Eli Lama Sabachthani?’
Thus spake nameseek: Cry! Cry, let’s hear our tears. Each of us is the sad formation of every other. We are also our hip-hop bibliographies. We are the commas in your scriptures, the last imperfect residue of Hexaemeron, and the fallen leaves of Cabbala. We befuddle ourselves by looking in the mirror, looking at ourselves through mirrors in awe; all reflection belongs to us, but none is us.
So name us, please name us.

(These are Namesakes):

We know our names, our last names that resemble others’. But we were born blind, ruptured spine and hunchbacked. Still raw, still flawed, still needing the bearer of our last name—Ceteris paribus, at the receiving end of god’s ire, the god of lost pieces and shared memories. We see the Niles of fate upon our hands that vanish and reappear with the advent of each hour, making us someone else. Someone, with our last name.
What passeth here in this dim-lit stage (This Sanctuary we call The Empire of Mirrors) as infinitude of fiction is our pantophobia? Harlequins and Scaramouch manacled together for only one act, that one act that repeats itself to the degree where rapetition loses its meaning. Each face is a simulacrum of another, each simulacrum imitating its father and so on till the very beginning. We all are Adams. Frightened and a-mazed, and there is no Eve—only sons, fathers, shared memories and lost pieces.
And what screameth here is the echo of each previous act, and acts still to some, our vestiges spread over the fabric of eternity.
At times we yearn for the memory of faded features on our faces. And what a gut-wrenching yearning that is! These times we yearn for the yearning to last. How imperative it is for yearning to last. For with its demise, we cease to exist and become only reflections for those, who bear our name.

2006-07-01T13:22:00.000+05:00

The narrative about those 3000 miles of revulsion and impervious veil of darkness, the lack of light, and 72 hours of disgust and dirt about those shinning floors can be summarized in simple anamnesis of togetherness because you weren’t there. And the nights when smoke clouded the vision and I gasped for breath and a sight of the stars, I placed you there in midst of 1001 galaxies—cadre of my world, all those supernovae were envious of your glamour—and let your light shine in on me. In memories we approach the volatile definitions of embrace, of touch and magic.

Or another time, as melody in the air ("some dance to remember, some dance to forget"), spreading and stretching its boundaries like a multeity on the junction between the sun and the desert, you were there standing still in the centre and I danced around you in circles. And then you'd slither your way in my dream, tread upon the labyrinths of my mind with a certain certainty; and mock my vulnerability with a faked naiveté, ‘where’s the linear labyrinth you promised me?’

Or in the night, without the benefit of moonlight, the seething screams of Bach and Satie's gymnopedies, (I rub my naked feet on the floor) memories, melancholies and longings, smoke and perfumes, (I wipe the sweat trickling down my forehead, pay heed to the shouting children three floors below), a cacophony of all voices, all vices, juxtaposed over a fabric of familiar phrases, phases and recursive mazes.

And how does it feel at the hour of waking, left stranded, not far off from sleep, between space and time, with the fragrance of moist soil freshly kissed by summer rain and soporific cool winds, sweet muscle pains and heavy eyes, the hour when you stretch your arms in most real of all illusions only to find that you are alone.
Mundanities of the day and angst in the night when some illusions wither.
And I am left as a mere story teller, a persistent supple echo in my own mind, like the surreal flexible watches in Dali’s dreams, forming colours that suit, forming, with my own memories, graves and shrines.

I remember vividly, one of the eves spent in hell and a beautiful maiden on the cross. Her flesh was ripped by the pebbles thrown by religious birds, and her blood burnt the land it was spilling onto. I went up to her, touched her pale skin which melted and made a hole she whispered 'such are sins of flesh'. 'She wanted Him all for herself.' They told me, they told me that she wanted to love in flesh. 'What’s good for humans, aint good for the God'... That night I made her grave, the first of many without gravestone or iconic memorials. Except for the screams. But those preferred to stay stagnant and hover above—some mark shall be left for those who don't fear His wrath.

These pieces of wordsjust fill in the emptiness of these lines, waiting for a meaning, a consubstantiality, an identification. What means what, if anything, and why, and why not something else. Prior to the interpretation of a text and the answers it unfolds, there are the questions that anticipate answers. And writing becomes a unique heuristic voyage for the author ITself, as well as the varying readers. A random evolution of a judgment out of disparate and embryonic circumstances, semiotics and symbols and what they mean to me in multiple perspectives (particle, wave and field) , and formulation of a situational truth in my mind that I try to duplicate in the minds of a reader, in whatever structures I can come up with for an effective communication. But still my syllogism takes the benefits of an 'if', a root that maynot have actual existence and I revolve in circular mazes, fabricating a charted land of fabulous fables, under the illusion of that I may have conveyed something.

And for you kid, togetherness is a different structure, built on a stairway of connections. Each connection, like a single stair, ends for another for togetherness to be together. Such is the form of togetherness. And no connection can be renewed, every attempt at its revival renders it somewhat weaker, a multitude of cracks appear within the structure causing a collapse, a breaking apart. Remember? The pieces fit, but you watch them tumbled down. And if you over-emphasize a certain regime of signs as sensitivity or naiveté, like speech, you may escape togetherness for a different route altogether. Thus it is for want-of-being-together to build new connections before older expire.

And heart has its mysterious ways. The impenetrable heart that never thawed had yet to discover its own vicissitudes.A moment When all the rues and quest of rebellion were vanquished for a happiness that trickled down on my face, in gratitude of a miracle just born (such fragile beauty wrapped in clothing, smiling and breathing at intervals-intervals with a miniscule hiatus between them- hiatus which could stop my heart) and euphoria of a collage of emotions, of all forms of happiness and some forms of love.

In one of the borgesian labyrinths, I learned something: nothing in the world is devoid of tiny seeds of hell. That's why memory is volatile dear, anything and everything is capable of driving us insane if we are unable to forget it. Envisage a possibility of persistence of memory-- memories that we made together, at all times, wouldn't it be enough to drive us mad. This lack of persistence in minds and actions, these moderations and balance instruments (I wanto cry, and I wanto laugh. I wanto be touched and I wanto be left alone. I wanto be you, and I wanto be me) keep us from boiling in infernos of excess, whether it is a cheesecake or ravenous sex.
In this assemblage of forking times, one of the times, this favourable time that fate has granted us with to be particular, you exist and so do I, bounded to each other through a series of connections, defining the verisimilitude of each other; In another I'd write the same lines, but I'd be a ghost, an illusion. But in all of time’s innumerable permutations, in which I exist and so do you, I am grateful to you for existing.

In ephemeral dreams I dream of immortality and wake up trembling in fear. What good is immortality, where every act is an echo of others that preceded it in the past that never had a beginning, or the presage of others that in future will repeat it to a vertiginous degree until forever. Everything is, as if it is lost in a maze of indefatigable mirrors, nothing is preciously precarious. I cherish your face, your eyes that glow to see me, your inviting smile and you because one day it’ll all dissolve like it never existed.

In the cesspit of wastes from emotional deluge, I have lost many pieces of me and so have you, the pieces which we won’t ever find again. And this loss makes us precious, to each other, and to ourselves. Period.

Of Vengeance and Patience and Being a man

2006-06-05T16:42:00.000+05:00

Walking along those labyrinthine alleys my friend we never had a true communication. And how could we, when that was supposed to be a black day. And you had to be back, you had so much still to do…
I couldn’t say much when you had buried your head between your knees in that reverent silence which tried so desperately to make you believe in the jabbering of that swollen shithole. You were trying to tame that vicissitude that needed no moonlight to rise, and I watched you wrestle with yourself and that tide.
And then there were your eyes that looked at me in awe.
I tried to read you through them; I tried to read me through you.
That gloomy residue of vengefulness saddened me dear, what vengeance, against whom and how? When caught in the crossfire of gods, the incidentals and coincidentals have no option but to scratch their wounds and bleed to death, or heal being indebted to the very sword that slashed them in two, or lit up a secret flame of vengeance in their hearts and wait for it to fade away. I wanted to see that little flame extinguish right then, in front of me, before in its dismay of unrequited revenge it blackens you heart. Ever noticed the relation of captive and his captor? The captive, no matter how vain he is, still owes his breaths to his captor.
And then I see in those eyes a fear of your capacity of endurance.
You’ll endure it.
I’ve seen men enduring it soaked in tears and enveloped in screams. I have endured it cocooned in silence. And that’s all I Know, One way or the other, everyone endures, and patience is just bullshit word that is coined because people needed something to say at funerals. It’s not an embrace of the fate dear, it’s supposed to be hugging your sorrows with jubilation, and with that madness you can’t be a son, and you can’t be a man.

We’ll meet again six months and we would laugh our hearts out. By then endurance will become a habit to you, and patience will never arrive.Till then I need to say goodbye…
I hope you understand why I dread at even the possibility of looking at shadows from the past.

2006-04-28T11:34:00.000+05:00

In sultry mornings, when ghosts of the nights’ dreams recapitulate, I mourn the departure of the little waif lost in the wasteland of my heart.
I can still visualize him, cold and naked, shivering in the dark, and crying.
Better! He didn’t fit in. All rues aside, he didn’t fit in.
Sometimes we can come undone with whatever we did, sometimes we can’t. What say you love, which one of those times is it?
And when of questions, I ask too much? For me, yes. But I ask so. To cogitate of being with you, around you, or even in the imagination of your presence, Love.
And moments, made heavy with breaths, dissolved in thin air. I relive them to live. And how I live them, these images of your glistening skin, brushing against mine, and a mélange of desires? I tremble already, as I trembled, the beauty, love, passion. A collage of these memories when, for once, for once lunacy ruled over the rationale, have glued themselves to the fragments of my being. Do you know, Love, they obliterate mirrors, nullify the dissonance between me and my personage and let me be me, resurrected and naked in the warmth of your lap this time. And how could I mar them with a self-righteous frenzy—these memories that send tremors down my spirit in an orgasmic ecstasy? What an episode of rebirth unbeknownst to the flesh.
Talk to me, my inabilities, murmur in my ear; what to say, what to write, to make her hear, to make her understand? How to locate coherence, lucidity in this paroxysm of my restlessness, to establish the connection, a communication?
These words that I form mock my naiveté and I war with these, like that little child who is alone in the wilderness, cold and naked, and crying.

2006-04-28T11:27:00.000+05:00

Achtung baby
The night falls and darkness cloaks the epidermis on my body until all the bulging veins will become invisible to the eye: your eye.
Hear me out, before the night falls and this being becomes another fragment of unceasing dark.
Talk to me; let the wind sway in ecstasy as it carries your sweet voice to me. Let it resound all around and whisper heart rending melodies to me. Sing for the love that has to trialed; sing for the pain that has to be endured and sing for the joy that will sojourn for ages as this moment crawls away.
Look at me, because this time, this instant, you can suffuse me in through your gaze. Let me in now and hide me in the infinite labyrinth of your mind, before the fall.
Breathe in, Inhale these words and let them weave the magic of transformation for the moment these words cease to exit, I cease to exist—exits as I do now, this moment. Only your transformation in relation to these words will remind you that this moment was real. I was real.
Say hello to goodbyes for a parting shall begin with a rendezvous.
Do not look away; even if it hurts let me disappear remembering your eyes in awe… for me.

Achtung baby, as I farewell.
--
In the seven ages, I shall have my vengeance. You see, the first of seven will answer the question of what, the second of why, the third of when, the fourth of how, the fifth of whom; the sixth will justify these questions with questions.
And then the seventh shall finally arrive.By then I’d have pondered upon the mysteries and their genesis; and upon the capacity of cognition to devour a soul piece by piece in the infinitude of its labyrinths. I’d have written the greatest eulogy of all. I’ll take your hand and we’ll ride on those fiery chariots with indefatigable cherubs, disguised as horses. We shall have our feast then. Under the smirking red sky, in a belladonic haze, we’ll paint our masterpiece— in blood.

--

Some versions of Judas as seen by Borges and Nikos Kazantzakis

2006-01-26T11:22:00.000+05:00

"Nils Runeberg proposes an opposite moving force: an extravagant and even limitless asceticism. The ascetic, for the greater glory of God, degrades and mortifies the flesh; Judas did the same with the spirit. He renounced honor, good, peace, the Kingdom of Heaven, as others, less heroically, renounced pleasure. With a terrible lucidity he premeditated his offense.
In adultery, there is usually tenderness and self-sacrifice; in murder, courage; in profanation and blasphemy, a certain satanic splendor. Judas elected those offenses unvisited by any virtues: abuse of confidence (John 12 :6) and informing. He labored with gigantic humility; he thought himself unworthy to be good. Paul has written: Whoever glorifieth himself, let him glorify himself in God (I Corinthians 1:31); Judas sought Hell because the felicity of the Lord sufficed him. He thought that happiness, like good, is a divine attribute and not to be usurped by men."

"The general argument is not complex, even if the conclusion is monstrous. God, argues Nils Runeberg, lowered himself to be a man for the redemption of the human race; it is reasonable to assume that the sacrifice offered by him was perfect, not invalidated or attenuated by any omission. To limit all that happened to the agony of one afternoon on the cross is blasphemous. To affirm that he was a man and that he was incapable of sin contains a contradiction; the attributes of impeccabilitas and of humanitas are not compatible. Kemnitz admits that the Redeemer could feel fatigue, cold, confusion, hunger and thirst; it is reasonable to admit that he could also sin and be damned. The famous text He will sprout like a root in a dry soil; there is not good mien to him, nor beauty; despised of men and the least of them; a man of sorrow, and experienced in heartbreaks (Isaiah 53:2-3) is for many people a forecast of the Crucified in the hour of his death; for some (as for instance, Hans Lassen Martensen), it is a refutation of the beauty which the vulgar consensus attributes to Christ; for Runeberg, it is a precise prophecy, not of one moment, but of all the atrocious future, in time and eternity, of the Word made flesh. God became a man completely, a man to the point of infamy, a man to the point of being reprehensible - all the way to the abyss. In order to save us, He could have chosen any of the destinies which together weave the uncertain web of history; He could have been Alexander, or Pythagoras, or Rurik, or Jesus; He chose an infamous destiny: He was Judas."

(Borges' Three Versions of Judas)

"Understand? Rabbi, you broke my heart. Sometimes I curse the day I ever met you. We held the world in our hands. Remember what you said to me? You took me in your arms, do you remember? And you begged me. "Betray me, betray me. I have to be crucified. I have to be resurrected to save the world.”I am the lamb," you said. "Death is the door. Judas, my brother, don't be afraid. Help me go through the door." And I loved you so much I went and betrayed you"

Judas to the ailing Christ in Scorcese's The Last Temptation of Christ, based on Nikos Kazantzakis's Novel.

P.S.
So what say you? Reader.

Selection from Kristeva's Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection

2006-01-01T19:55:00.000+05:00

Compared to most contemporary French theorists that gave me most delicious of headaches trying to make a sense out of their text, Kristeva remains essentially simple, though thoroughly enjoyable... Her criticism being heavily inflected by Lacan and Derrida, still remains decipherable ( It remains a relative comparison ) without much head banging on the walls ( Which ofcourse made Derrida my masochistic love)... The casual readers of this blog, alien to her or Derrida, may find this a difficult read , but I guess still worth the pain. It, to date remains the only post for which I am looking forward for comments/interpretations of all who give it a read.

No Beast is there without glimmer of infinity,
No eye so vile nor abject that brushes not
Against lightning from on high, now tender, now fierce.
--Victor Hugo, La Légende des siècles

NEITHER SUBJECT NOR OBJECT

There looms, within abjection, one of those violent, dark revolts of being, directed against a threat that seems to emanate from an exorbitant outside or inside, ejected beyond the scope of the possible, the tolerable, the thinkable. It lies there, quite close, but it cannot be assimilated. It beseeches, worries, and fascinates desire, which, nevertheless, does not let itself be seduced. Apprehensive, desire turns aside; sickened, it rejects. A certainty protects it from the shameful - a certainty of which it is proud holds on to it. But simultaneously, just the same, that impetus, that spasm, that leap is drawn toward an elsewhere as tempting as it is condemned. Unflaggingly, like an inescapable boomerang, a vortex of summons and repulsion places the one haunted by it literally beside himself. When I am beset by abjection, the twisted braid of affects and thoughts I call by such a name does not have, properly speaking, a definable object. The abject is not an ob-ject facing me, which I name or imagine. Nor is it an ob-ject, an otherness ceaselessly fleeing in a systematic quest of desire. What is abject is not my correlative, which, providing me with someone or something else as support, would allow me to be more or less detached and autonomous. The abject has only one quality of the object - that of being opposed to the I. If the object, however, through its opposition, settles me within the fragile texture of a desire for meaning, which, as a matter of fact, makes me ceaselessly and infinitely homologous to it, what is abject, on the contrary, the jettisoned object, is racially excluded and draws me toward the place where meaning collapses. A Certain "ego" that merged with its master, a superego, has flatly driven it away. It lies outside, beyond the set, and does not seem to agree to the latter's rules of the game. And yet, from its place of banishment, the abject does not cease challenging its master. Without a sign (for him), it beseeches a discharge, a convulsion, a crying out. To each ego its object, to each superego its abject. It is not the white expanse or slack boredom of repression, not the translations and transformations of desire that wrench bodies, nights, and discourse; rather it is a brutish suffering that "I" puts up with, sublime and devastated, for "I" deposits it to the father's account: I endure it, for I imagine that such is the desire of the other. A massive and sudden emergence of uncanniness, which, familiar as it might have been in an opaque and forgotten life, now harries me as radically separate, loathsome. Not me. Not that. But not nothing, either. A "something" that I do not recognize as a thing. A weight of meaninglessness, about which there is nothing insignificant, and which crushes me. On the edge of non-existence and hallucination, of a reality that, if I acknowledge it annihilates me. There, abject and abjection are my safeguards. The primers of my culture.

THE IMPROPER/UNCLEAN

Loathing an item of food, a piece of filth, waste, or dung. The spasms and vomiting that protect me. The repugnance, the retching that thrusts me to the side and turns me away from defilement, sewage, and muck. The shame of compromise, of being in the middle of treachery. The fascinated start that leads me toward and separates me from them. Food loathing is perhaps the most elementary and most archaic form of abjection. When the eyes see or the lips touch that skin on the surface of milk - harmless, thin as a sheet of cigarette paper, pitiful as a nail pairing - I experience a gagging sensation and, still farther down, spasms in the stomach, the belly; and all the organs shrivel up the body, provoke tears and bile, increase heartbeat, cause forehead and hands to perspire. Along with sight-clouding dizziness, nausea makes me balk at that milk cream, separates me from the mother and father who proffer it. "I" want none of that element, sign of their desire; "I" do not want to listen, "I" do not assimilate it, "I" expel it. But since the food is not an "other" for "me," who am only in their desire, I expel myself, I spit myself out, I abject myself within the same motion through which "I" claim to establish myself. That detail, perhaps an insignificant one, but one that they ferret out, emphasize, evaluate, that trifle turns me inside out, guts sprawling; it is thus that they see that "I" am in the process of becoming an other at the expense of my own death. During that course in which "I" become, I give birth to myself amid the violence of sobs, of vomit. Mute protest of the symptom, shattering violence of a convulsion that, to be sure, is inscribed in a symbolic system, but in which, without either wanting or being able to become integrated in order to answer to it, it reacts, it abreacts. It abjects. The corpse (or cadaver: cadere, to fall), that which has irremediably come a cropper, is cesspool, and death; it upsets even more violently the one who confronts it as fragile and fallacious chance. A would with blood and pus, or the sickly, acrid smell of sweat, of decay, does not signify death. In the presence of signified death - a flat encephalograph, for instance - I would understand, react, or accept. No, as in true theater, without makeup or masks, refuse and corpses show me what I permanently thrust aside in order to live. These body fluids, this defilement, this shit are what life withstands, hardly and with difficulty, on the part of death. There, I am at the border of my condition as a living being. My body extricates itself, as being alive, from that border. Such wastes drop so that I might live, until, from loss to loss, nothing remains in me and my entire body falls beyond the limit -- cadere, cadaver. If dung signifies the other side of the border, the place where I am not and which permits me to be, the corpse, the most sickening of wastes, is a border that has encroached upon everything. It is no longer I who expel. "I" is expelled. The border has become an object. How can I be without border? That elsewhere that I imagine beyond the present, or that I hallucinate so that I might, in a present time, speak to you, conceive of you - it is now here, jetted, abjected, into "my" world. Deprived of world, therefore, I fall in a faint. In that compelling, raw, insolent thing in the morgue's full sunlight, in that thing that no longer matches and therefore no longer signifies anything, I behold the breaking down of a world that has erased its borders: fainting away. The corpse, seen without God and outside of science, is the utmost of abjection. It is death infecting life. Abject. It is something rejected from which one does not part, from which one does not protect oneself as from an object. Imaginary uncanniness and real threat, it beckons to us and ends up engulfing us. It is thus not lack of cleanliness or health that causes abjection but what disturbs identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules. The in-between, the ambiguous, the composite. The traitor, the liar, the criminal with a good conscience, the shameless rapist, the killer who claims he is a savior. . . . Any crime, because it draws attention to the fragility of the law, is abject, but premeditated crime, cunning murder, hypocritical revenge are even more so because they heighten the display of such fragility. He who denies morality is not abject, there can be grandeur in amorality and even in crime that flaunts its disrespect for the law - rebellious, liberating, and suicidal crime. Abjection, on the other hand, is immoral, sinister, scheming, and shady: a terror that dissembles, a hatred that smiles, a passion that uses the body for barter instead of inflaming it, a debtor who sets you up, a friend who stabs you. . . . In the dark halls of the museum that is now what remains of Auschwitz, I see a heap of children's shoes, or something like that, something I have already seen elsewhere, under a Christmas tree for instance, dolls I believe. The abjection of Nazi crime reaches its apex when death, which, in any case, kills me, interferes with what, in
my living universe, is supposed to save me from death: childhood, science, among other things.

THE ABJECTION OF SELF

If it be true that the abject simultaneously beseeches and pulverizes the subject, one can understand that it is experienced at the peak of its strength when that subject, weary of fruitless attempts to identify with something on the outside, finds the impossible within; when it finds that the impossible constitutes its very being, that it is one other than abject. The abjection of self would be the culminating form of that experience of the subject to which it is revealed that all its objects are based merely on the inaugural loss that laid the foundations of its own being. There is nothing like the abjection of self to show that all abjection is in fact recognition of the want on which any being, meaning, language, or desire is founded. One passes too quickly over this word, "want," and today psychoanalysts are finally taking into account only its more or less fetishized product, the "object of want." But if one imagines (and imagine one must, for it is the working of imagination whose foundations are being laid here) the experience of want itself as logically preliminary to being and object - to the being of the object - then one understands that abjection, and even more so abjection of self, is its only signified. Its signifier, then, is none but literature. Mystical Christendom turned this abjection of self into the ultimate proof of humility before God, witness Elizabeth of Hungary who "though a great princess, delighted in nothing so much as in abasing herself." The question remains as to the ordeal, a secular one this time, that abjection can constitute for someone who, in what is termed knowledge of castration, turning away from perverse dodges, presents himself with his own body and ego as the most precious non-objects; they are no longer seen in their own right but forfeited, abject. The termination of analysis can lead us there, as we shall see. Such are the pangs and delights of masochism. Essentially different from "uncanniness," more violent, too, abjection is elaborated through a failure to recognize its kin; nothing is familiar, not even the shadow of a memory. I imagine a child who has swallowed up his parents too soon, who frightens himself on that account, "all by himself," and, to save himself, rejects and throws up everything that is given to him - all gifts, all objects. He has, he could have, a sense of the abject. Even before things for him are -- hence before they are signifiable - he drives them out, dominated by drive as he is, and constitutes his own territory, edged by the abject. A sacred configuration. Fear cements his compound, conjoined to another world, thrown up, driven out, forfeited. What he has swallowed up instead of maternal love is an emptiness, or rather a maternal hatred without a word for the words of the father; that is what he tries to cleanse himself of, tirelessly. What solace does he come upon within such loathing? Perhaps a father, existing but unsettled, loving but unsteady, merely an apparition but an apparition that remains. Without him the holy brat would probably have no sense of the sacred; a blank subject, he would remain, discomfited, at the dump for non-objects that are always forfeited, from which, on the contrary, fortified by abjection, he tries to extricate himself. For he is not mad, he through whom the abject exists. Out of the daze that has petrified him before the untouchable, impossible, absent body of the mother, a daze that has cut off his impulses from their objects, that is, from their representations, out of such daze he causes, along with loathing, one word to crop up - fear. The phobic has no other object than the abject. But that word, "fear" - a fluid haze, an elusive clamminess - no sooner has it cropped up than it shades off like a mirage and permeates all words of the language with nonexistence, with a hallucinatory ghostly glimmer. Thus, fear having been bracketed, discourse will seem tenable only if it ceaselessly confront that otherness, a burden both repellent and repelled, a deep well of
memory that is unapproachable and intimate: the abject.

BEYOND THE UNCONSCIOUS

Put another way, it means that there are lives not sustained by desire, as desire is always for objects. Such lives are based on exclusion. They are clearly distinguishable from those understood as neurotic or psychotic, articulated by negation and in modalities, transgression, denial, and repudiation. Their dynamics challenges the theory of the unconscious, seeing that the latter is dependent upon a dialectic of negativity. The theory of the unconscious, as is well know, presupposes a repression of contents (affects and presentations) that, thereby, do not have access to consciousness but effect within the subject modifications, either of speech (parapraxes, etc.), or of the body (symptoms), or both (hallucinations, etc.). As correlative to the notion of repression, Freud put forward that of denial as a means of figuring out neurosis, that of rejection (repudiation) as a means of situating psychosis. The asymmetry of the two repressions becomes more marked owing to denial's bearing on the object whereas repudiation affects desire itself (Lacan, in perfect keeping with Freud's thought, interprets that as "repudiation of the Name of the Father"). Yet, facing the ab-ject and more specifically phobia and the splitting of the ego (a point I shall return to), one migt ask if those articulations of negativity germane to the unconscious (inherited by Freud from philosophy and psychology) have not become inoperative. The "unconscious" contents remain here excluded but in strange fashion: not radically enough to allow for a secure differentiation between subject and object, and yet clearly enough for a defensive position to be established - one that implies a refusal but also a sublimating elaboration. As if the fundamental opposition were between I and Other or, in more archaic fashion, between Inside and Outside. As if such an opposition subsumed the one between Conscious and Unconscious, elaborated on the basis of neuroses. Owing to the ambiguous opposition I/Other, Inside/Outside - an opposition that is vigorous but pervious, violent but uncertain - there are contents, "normally" unconscious in neurotics, that become explicit if not conscious in "borderline" patients' speeches and behavior. Such contents are often openly manifested through symbolic practices, without by the same token being integrated into the judging consciousness of those particular subjects. Since they make the conscious/unconscious distinction irrelevant, borderline subjects and their speech constitute propitious ground for a sublimating discourse ("aesthetic" or "mystical" etc.), rather than a scientific or rationalist one.

AN EXILE WHO ASKS "WHERE?"

The one by whom the abject exists is thus a deject who places (himself), separates (himself), situates (himself), and therefore strays instead of getting his bearings, desiring, belonging, or refusing. Situationist in a sense, and not without laughter --since laughing is a way of placing or displacing abjection. Necessarily dichotomous, somewhat Manichaean, he divides,, excludes, and without, properly speaking, wishing to know his abjections is not at all unaware of them. Often, moreover, he includes himself among them, thus casting within himself the scalpel that carries out his separations. Instead of sounding himself as to his "being," he does so concerning his place: "Where am I?" instead of "Who am I?" For the space that engrosses the deject, the excluded, is never one, nor homogeneous, nor totalizable, but essentially divisible, foldable, and catastrophic. A deviser of territories, languages, works, the deject never stops demarcating his universe whose fluid confines - for they are constituted of a non-object, the abject - constantly question his solidity and impel him to start afresh. A tireless builder, the deject is in short a stray. He is on a journey, during the night, the end of which keeps receding. He has a sense of the danger, of the loss that the pseudo-object attracting him represents for him, but he cannot help taking the risk at the very moment he sets himself apart. And the more he strays, the more he is saved.

TIME: FORGETFULNESS AND THUNDER

For it is out of such straying on excluded ground that he draws his jouissance. The abject from which he does not cease separating is for him, in short, a land of oblivion that is constantly remembered. Once upon blotted-out time, the abject must have been a magnetized pole of covetousness. But the ashes of oblivion now serve as a screen and reflect aversion, repugnance. The clean and proper (in the sense of incorporated and incorporable) becomes filthy, the sought-after turns into the banished, fascination into shame. Then, forgotten time crops up suddenly and condenses into a flash of lightning an operation that, if it were thought out, would involve bringing together the two opposite terms but, on account of that flash, is discharged like thunder. The time of abjection is double: a time of oblivion and thunder, of veiled infinity and the moment when revelation bursts forth.

2005-12-29T19:08:00.000+05:00

Do you understand, my dear friend? You will reread it and you will see that the one who will love you until his death wanted to sign it with his blood.

De Sade

1979 Smashing Pumpkins

2005-12-22T23:47:00.000+05:00

Shakedown 1979, cool kids never have the time
On a live wire right up off the street
You and I should meet
Junebug skipping like a stone
With the headlights pointed at the dawn
We were sure we’d never see an end to it all
And I don’t even care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t knowJust where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
Double cross the vacant and the bored
They’re not sure just what we have in the store
Morphine city slippin dues down to see
That we don’t even care as restless as we are
We feel the pull in the land of a thousand guilts
And poured cement, lamented and assured
To the lights and towns below
Faster than the speed of sound
Faster than we thought we’d go, beneath the sound of hope
Justine never knew the rules,
Hung down with the freaks and the ghouls
No apologies ever need be made, I know you better than you fake it
To see that we don’t care to shake these zipper blues
And we don’t know just where our bones will rest
To dust I guess
Forgotten and absorbed into the earth below
The street heats the urgency of sound
As you can see there’s no one around

Hymnhum. Suckmarrow [ashtory next chapter]

2005-12-14T00:58:00.000+05:00

[This to the lord of the void.]
I submit meself in thy puppetual servitude—A Sonsinking dreams of a patern with velvet wavelets and shimmering darkness—semper in angaria, Of Slavation that beasts upon thesires, haramonizes infinite nymphs within a single rhapsody and all creation hymns the song of solomoan. A metamorphic metaphor in search of themeaning in an impassable impasse, the words and mazes, stretches its implications from pestilence to damnation. This fading façade will soon disappear love and there’ll be nothing left of me, nothing but the carving on that wall [eia, quis me amabit], where you stand and watch me dig holes, souls. And you hymnhum litanies of your god’s love oblivious of the luciferous waltzes of those forsaken souls… Of one soon I’ll be. Who will then cherish the memory of embrace, of hands in hands, of bodies pressed into eachother, of lips inseparable for that moment that lapsed eternity, and travel on wings of abaddon? What death this life conceals in its lap, shroud, enigma and mythology?

[But this again is a story, only a story…]

We slashed our palms, blended bloods, and farewelled, up till the moment of readiscovering, with healed scars and charred faces, clothed in paper—suicidal notes written in each other’s name. And curled us into a homogenous conglomerate, annuled individualities, abandoned for an embrace—for ambrosia.
Please believe there is no falling apart.
Please… Believe … These rivers of fate on my hand, this palmystery doesn’t nourish a judas within its depths.Ma chere, you were of faith, remember? I was of little; I needed to touch the flesh to believe. And how you resurrected me, sundered me from Thomas, inch by inch, limb by limb… What isn’t a story, you and me as functions of time and space, the age old question of form and substance, written by the mighty creator on pages of eternity?

2005-12-13T00:11:00.000+05:00

Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him...

2005-12-05T22:43:00.000+05:00

I am going to kill bill...

Metamorphosis

2005-11-18T06:51:00.000+05:00

Life is about to be changed forever, once again. Tomorrow at the stroke of midnoon, I would have finished the last paper before I graduate... And then mundanities will never be the same again.
Last four years have been eventfull if not anything, and though love came to heal all in the end, i still cherish the old flagellations. 'The transition is beautiful', Someone said 'There is a softness about you which was missing forever til now. ' And I laughed. Laughed my heart out. The cynical rogue learned to laugh, and to cry, and to feel.For all the bitterness I collected over the first three years [Vestige of which still lingers, may linger on forever], at the end of it all, I am happy. Regrets are nothing compared to this elation.
Thank You, my-wish, thank you my love.

2005-11-09T01:34:00.000+05:00

Reading an unusually sesquipedalian testimonial one sophomoron wrote to another, I couldn’t help admiring the farrago of all so many alien words in 10 lines. It was amusing to see that there were some six/seven words I never heard of. Proud in my own verbiage at language [Of course before 11th May Happened], I wondered at that person’s eloquence, though detested how she tried to jumble up all her verbosity in a single testimonial. Googling for meanings, when my faithful Oxford and even http://www.m-w.com/ betrayed me, I came across a page of supposedly Superior Words. Haha, all of those alien words were borrowed from a single webpage. I wonder who is fooling whom and why … The incorrigible supposed-superiority-complex is such a fun thing to observe, though hard to stay away from.
P.S
Few visit this page, but for benefit of all, who may consider them seperior this way, if not another, here is the link.
http://www.physics.ohio-state.edu/~wilkins/writing/Resources/essays/superiorwords.html

Ash-tory. Unfinished yet

2005-10-18T02:08:00.000+05:00

Prologue:

This is where I asked myself, if I knew myself. Along minuscule vicissitudes in tender hearts, I placed the seeds of a catastrophe.
I owed death a life: I became my death.
It’s a fun memory, reminiscence has never been so pleasant, never had the past—the past been so beautiful.
Wait. This is not the apt course; I have to start from where it began. There had to be symmetry. Chronometry. I have to seek origins, and the roots. I have to. I have to find those first, or at least construct those—assemble the assemblage of origins. The genesis of this narrative shall be chronicled in an order. Nostalgia with the benefit of innovation is creativity. So let me think, Oh no, let me recollect, let me go down back in the forgotten lanes. Yes! That is scary, but still so soothing. Yes! Its dark yet so illuminating. In the cul-de-sacs of my conscious amnesia… life before I find the end, and the beginning, I find the origins.
The beginning begins with Sin, like the Original beginning. Moist. Rosy. Creamy. Irresistible... What if the devil was still the angel? Yes, there’d have been no story—no colour. Somewhere, I’d say, the drunken old bitch was right. I hailed him: The devil be damned. An Aeolian harp he played and we danced along, it was such ecstasy, it was so divile. Its such a fruitful doom, for devil to be damned. Apples and taste. Now everything turns to ashes in the mouths. Isn’t it malady? For nothing compares to forbidden fruit you offered and I devoured. I am trapped with the booby Nightmares.
Nudity. I wonder whether divinity needs clothing. But that’d be dreaming in dreams, the extermination of the facts, the truth. Four deserts in the way, dues still to pay, yet there’ll be days, I tell you my dear, there will be days. Days of heavy breaths, bodies enveloped in sweat—in mist. That’s what I ride upon, the panacea of pain. The end of a beginning, and beginning of eternity.
[And I fucked chronology again.]
I am not sure I want to tell the story, I am not sure that I shall be Lazarus. But I have been raised, I have been touched.
Ah! The devil be damned.
Its not my choice, never was, never will be. Lazarus doesn’t have choices.

Abracadabra, lightening and blizzard:
This was supposed to be a song: a catchy tune and melodious rhythm. I am so sorry for this disappointment, converse is the case. This is the shrieking of hounds juxtaposed scrannely with howling of wolves in the moonlit nights, when hunters hunt and moaners moan: Everyone owns a personal Shaam—e—Ghareeban . But it was about the spell. Not howls, not moans. Of abracadabra…
The words didn’t mean a thing. Every one could sing it. There was a secret of which I had known very late and still I remain incapable of exploiting it—I could be messiah otherwise.
Let me shoot it straight, I am bad with suspense: The eleven words of abracadabra sung with the eleven words of nothingness with ten iterations. Twenty two words in total. Ten iterations. I know that seems outrageous. It is so. But singing those eleven words of nothingness takes all the breath your body can gather. Try that, and you’d see, like Lazarus, Messiahs are chosen too.
What happens when the sorcerer… I mean messiah ofcoarse, off-course … anyway what happens when the spell is complete? Bingo, you guessed it right. Thunder rubbles, Lightening strikes. They hang here, they don’t burn them on the chair, and so what knoweth thee of the burning veins? And of thunder? Terrible screams of devils in hell, or of hell? And what will explain to thee what this is? Fire Blazing fiercely!
Sadomized—Me. I needed hell to run ‘into hell and back’. And a thread so thin to pull me from me, to her.
Out of the frying pan into the freezer.
C’mon don’t frown. Yes that is the most appropriate analogy I can juggle. [Pardon my frailties, my lost eloquence was washed away in the downpour of sin, and I don’t even miss it.] The coldness, the pain, the peace; Indescri—bable. From hell into the hands of blizzard. You know what happens when you burn and freeze simultaneously? No, you don’t get brittle.
You Live Again.
Haha. It seems so exhilarating right—reviving from the dead to the undead? It is not. ‘To be born again’ means a newer death. Death, again. New arrears to pay or be held in contempt forever. Forego. And there you sniff, dogs are incorrigible. They’d be loyal, and trade off their loyalty by sniffing your air. Men’d sniff too. Poke their noses in none-of-their-business, waiting to trace a hint of bad air, a vestige of filth. For what? Curiosity? Since I was the dead I know what they kept clandestine: The reality of Avagon, the transfiguring of souls—all men are dogs, all dogs are men. Our race is the despicable farrago of manhood and doghood, no wonder angel scorn us for kicks.
But I am losing the track again. I must, yes, I must relate the relevant. Yes the realevent.
But I guess, I fucked chronology again.

A-soul and Holes:

[Begone and forgotten, the gods of ancient cry out aloud for a little attention]

For the lovers of innumerable taboos, forbidden fruits will ripe out again. The inherent incongruity of paradise will haunt you and me for ages, seven ages my love and thus I’ll write immaculate dreams of illicit passions: imaginations. Heavens mock us if that closeness be. Regret drinks from our blood if that closeness be. Isn’t it mocking the inability to be close? The rays will fall again and melt us away. No matter what the want wants from two souls, the fear of dissolution will dissolve us away—anyway.
Lets master the art of letting go everything—everything but an us, a-soul, my soul. Let the two be Donned, into the two arms of a single soul.

[But that was the monologue my dear. Erase it if you may, for the story continues from HERE. I seem to be carried away in my soliloquy, and let that be a lone voyage, because it was one always. ]

The next significant honorable mention shall be the holes. Black-holes. True blackholes the suckers of energy, the seekers of light. It’s a great calamity to have one in you, believe me the void generating voids, the holes digging holes can be a pain. Lazarus died with the hole. And the messiah came and touched it then. An insertion, the act of completing—the kiss of life. Calmity is even a greater calamity and I induced one, received one.
You know what is the greatest pain of being complete? Submerging into each other? You can’t get enough, you can’t let go and the scissors in the hands of Sol will cut your fiery wings again, a flight too high will be blasphemous you see, and then the sense of incompleteness will prevail. Rebirth is a disease with symptoms of fear—of death, of voids, of incompletion. Rebirth is rapacious, the hunger to be born again, again yet not die is cruel. Can we be born again, if we never die? Miracles need no explanations messiah. All is plausible with the touch, with the sin.
The unfilled holes are excruciating, they stink with the moist air and seep puss; they are loathsome. What of filled holes, one of which I conceal under the hideous scars? What of the absence of pain inducing pain? The looming fear within ecstasy, the violent mutiny of being against what it loves, originating from a jaded inside, devoid of all colours it once absorbed. The fear lies there, lurks and lingers. And yet it resuscitates the dead—the desire, beseeches the unfilled holes to be filled.
And then the rebirth finally shapes up, takes its form, the inevitability to take forms clasps desire and shakes it through.
I become A soul without holes. Dependable, weak and shuddering for the touch, again, again. Forever. Forever.
But that’s too fast; I haven’t yet told you the story of death. What will you understand of rebirth if you won’t know/told of death? I am fucking chronology again.

Forest of fabrication and Pyramids of promise:

I was lost, lost was I. I have been in this hiatus since long, long enough to lose my sense of time. The interim between death and the after life, only few would know that it is the wait of ages. Dumped in a forest of fabrications, you see yourself infront of you without a mirror, disintegrating slowing until you face becomes mush and you become another fragment in the forest. It sounds horrific, it sounds frightening but believe me so you don’t feel a thing—dead don’t feel a thing. And there you came, I looked at you and you held my hand. It was you who sang a song and promised me pyramids of promise. You promised me it’d last longer than this intermission, longer than life, longer than eternity.
I took you hand, I had to take you hand. You crept under and over the pulp of my existence and swayed, asked me to sway along. I remember the song, love, I remember the tunes, and the stories you told. You said you’d be behind me, and I trusted you. I trusted you—never looked back. Orpheus never looked back and Eurydice sung him songs. You did that, your methodology rewrote mythology and I gave in as you caved in.
You brought me here at the foundation of this grandeur—this pyramid of promises and poemised immortality. What of the tremors in this remunerated febrile body that still shakes in disbelief—the slaves be buried as pharos.

[You said] ‘Tell me what scareth thee? ’
[I said] ‘Memories’
‘Tell me what shaketh thee?’
‘The fallacy of dreams ’
‘What mocketh thee? ’
‘Hope ’
‘What deceiveth thee?’
‘Touch’
You touched and made the tremor disappear.
‘Till when’ I said
You said ‘Forever’ and made my necromimesis gone.

The Mountain:

[Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity]

The mountain where I sojourned for centuries was written in moments. I flew to the top, on wings of thirst: the unbearable thirst of the ancient vampires. With exaltation of immortality, the pride of strength, I built myself a castle there in less then seven days, and murdered the sheep, castrated their self righteous shepherd. To demonstrate [much to myself, than anyone] the impossibility of reversal, I made there a huge fire, and burnt the bodies, and sprinkled the ashes in the in the arid air. The temple had its first immolation. I planned to live forever in the castle, never to die, never to feel dying. I buried my head in the infinite lap of the solitude and started the worship. It wasn’t easy you see it’s never easy, to choose one side, abandon other dimensions, whatever you choose to abandon, whatever you choose to cherish… One way or the other, the agen bit of inwit, clutches even the most blackened of hearts. Then finally when I thought the rituals were complete, the salvation accomplished, death came incognito to crumble the whole fabrication of salvation. I remember the stern face, the solemn imploring request for the shelter of one thousand and one nights. With eternity on hand, such little was the time, and the craving for a momentary cohort was irresistible. I offered her in, to share the taste of eternity with me... The mountain stood, so did the temple, yet Eternity crumbled. The same treasured lap of solitude became stench with the unholy blood, called itself loneliness. Incarcerated in the chains of self conscious choices, I embraced death, held her close and made love to her. She imparted me with the Red blackened with acrimony, and played with my toes, made them ashen.
I cant tell till when we lay together, I cant tell when I realized that I had died, but I did sometime, in one of those perpetual nights and she forsake me craving with desire of deathlove. And then the earth shattered below my lovebed, the mountain fragmented to petite figments of imagination and thus began TheFall.

2005-10-18T02:07:00.000+05:00

Its stupid to start a story, rather multiple stories and dry out, but that has become a habit so consistent with me.

2005-10-11T02:59:00.000+05:00

I promised her chocolates last Eid. She was angry whay i dont come to see her. She was 15, the only younger sister i ever had.
I wasn't there even when they buried her. The quake had her.
Mishi, I am sorry. I had been such a bad brother.
Forgive me.
I'll not call this Eid like it had become a tradition: I was always the first one who called. You were always the one who piched up and said'Eid Mubarak Badar bhai', and i always asked'What if it wasn't me?' . And you always said 'Its always you Badar Bhai'.
Mishi I love you, I am coming to see where you lay now. And I am crying.
Forgive me.

A portion from Rushdie's Midnight Children

2005-10-05T05:11:00.000+05:00

No!-But I must.
I don't want to tell it!-But I swore to tell it all.-No, I renounce, not that, surely some things are better left…?-That won't wash; what can't be cured, must be endured!-But surely not the whispering walls, and treason, and snip snip, and the women with the bruised chests?-Especially those things.-But how can I, look at me, I'm tearing myself apart, can't even agree with myself, talking arguing like a wild fellow, cracking up, memory going, yes, memory plunging into chasms and being swallowed by the dark, only fragments remain, none of it makes sense any more!-But I mustn't presume to judge; must simply continue (having once begun) until the end; sense-and-nonsense is no longer (perhaps never was) for me to evaluate.-But the horror of it, I can't won't mustn't won't can't no!-Stop this; begin.-No!-Yes.
About the dream, then? I might be able to tell it as a dream. Yes, perhaps a nightmare: green and black the Widow's hair and clutching hand and children mmff and little balls and one-by-one and torn-in-half and little balls go flying flying green and black her hand is green her nails are black as black.-No dreams. Neither the time nor the place for. Facts, as remembered. To the best of one's ability. The way it was: Begin.-No choice?-None; when was there ever? There are imperatives, and logical-consequences, and inevitabilities, and recurrences; there are things-done-to, and accidents, and bludgeonings-of-fate; when was there ever a choice? When options? When a decision freely-made, to be this or that or the other? No choice; begin.-Yes.

Wait...

2005-10-03T03:38:00.000+05:00

On the staircase of sephiroths in the imagery of life, i heard him mumble, felt him tremble. To amaze my amazement, he gave me an eye. It was such a tricky situtauon, believe me-- to be eyed upon by the man who knew it all.
I stumbled a little, confused as I was, asked his confusion. And he held my hand and asked, 'Eli what took you so long?'.
Its been quite sometime, quitesometime, quietsome time, that I am the man now, who knows it all. Waiting for the next one on the stair below.

Hell-elujah

2005-10-02T05:49:00.000+05:00

All satans will be laughing their hearts out in hell, Beelzebub stole the crowned goddess.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
This voracious beat of drums, this tempestuous Fandango.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Every one hums along. (Finally in hell) its the party time.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Dont mind cherubim's scrambling feet, its just so irresistible today.
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...
Yeah only the Devil knows how to play
Hell-elujah... Hell-elujah...

Thus madness was born.

2005-09-26T14:54:00.000+05:00

Out of many fathers and many mothers, madness was born. In the Immortal city of echoing inhabitants she remained immortal—yet alien forever. All what others knew of her was that they knew nothing of her; all she ever knew of herself was that she knew nothing of herself. She remained the childless child of many, some believed all. Nothing came out of her, but diaphanous laughter and screams which were her father and mother as well. She remained atavistic mother of her own ancestors.
It is the strangest of cities, within each city. It took its first form in Adam and then in eve and now in billions of us, there is one of these. At old times, it is presumed that, madness wasn’t born. Some believe it to be a dormant larva then, others say it came later with evolution of languages and semiotics in the other sphere in which these cities are located. Many tried to penetrate it, through tools of language and hence the names they gave to its people. Collectively these were called emotions. Emotions were the people of these cities where yours/ours truly madness resides.
The story is of an endless futile search by somebody to penetrate the city to delineate madness and her parents with an absolute certainty. As just told, the end of story is the futility of the search, what good is a story if its end is told. Then why should stories be good, they are stories after all.When Somebody encountered madness quarantined in its own city, like they used to do with leapers in other sphere, he asked her what she knew of herself. Madness couldn’t answer. Whatever Somebody tried to name the expressions on the face of madness, transient as they were, he named it one of its ancestors, fathers or mothers. Whenever Somebody tried to separate her own identity of that of her ascendants he found himself unable to do so, but he couldn’t even match her with any.
The story ends, madness remains the childless child. Of many fathers and many mothers.

2005-09-23T17:56:00.000+05:00

Memory is ephemeral in the sense it modifies the view, each time it recalls it.I dont want it to be modified. I want to preserve lucidity in nostalgia.
I wish i could paint.

Untitled til now, unfinished as well

2005-09-09T02:00:00.000+05:00

So what would you want from me?
Nothing.
Nothing?
Yeah! Can you give me that?
Nothing is too hard to give, its too hard to give nothing.
When did I say it was all easy?
You didn’t, I presumed I guess
You guess?
Maybe.
What is with you and all these maybes—uncertainty? Somewhere between us there should be some reality.
There would be, let the time elapse.
Absolutely?
I didn’t say I was going to be all real or absolute, did I?
I made believe then I think—no I don’t think; I know I made believe.
You do?
So are you getting me that?
Nothingness? I guess I may very well be able to.
You were a hard man.
What the hell is that?
I don’t know for sure, maybe I know but cant explain, whatever you were when we met.
Aint I the same now?
People change dear.
I aint people.
You are capricious too.
I hate to hear that.
Do you?
Can we ever, ever trust in anything we say to each other? Not questioning it.
Can’t we?
A question again.
These are inevitable. Just like the change.
Then your eye could be capricious as well. Maybe I am still the same, its only your eye.
Maybe again…
These are also inevitable.
Then the question of trust, in all that uncertainty is irrational.
Haha! That was hurtful.
See now it hurts too.
It always did.
You never told me, never made it that perspicuous.
I could say it’s again your eye: I wasn’t ever impervious.
So it hurts now, it hurt then; why tell me now?
I never hated it before.
Do you hate it now? I always thought you were incapable of actually hating anything.
What is your point? I am missing it. C’mon you look better with scalpel in your hand.
My point is, do you actually hate it now?
I’d like to believe in that.
Would you Like to believe that I don’t love you?
Why would you ask something, you so desperately want me to refute?
I need depressions maybe.
Or they need you—us.
Forget it; it’s a beautiful song, isn’t it?
Which one? The shit that they are playing at the moment? You call it beautiful.
Yes I call this shit beautiful.
Haha no wonder you are with me.
No Wonder? I thought you always did.
I underestimated your threshold maybe, or my repulsiveness.
And now. Do you believe I was meant to be here?
No. I believe you want to be here.
Isn’t it the same thing?
I don’t think it is.
People—women could die for you.
I want them to die, not for me, just die.
You are sadistic. You make me sick at times.
Don’t you love it… sometimes?
Sometimes out of sometimes maybe, not all the times.
You are growing, you are getting convoluted.
You are contagious.
I am just confused.
Happy?
I want to be. See! I cant, nor can you make US happy. None can take the sadness away, yet I am here and so are you.
I fear being all alone.
You wont be, I am here.
For sadness? People are together for happiness love.
I couldn’t be that naïve.
I wish you could be.
What is this ?
What?
The music, I think I heard it before. Isn’t it Chopin?
No its Rachmanionov. Rach 3. And you know it, don’t try to run. From what?
Sadness.
Whatever brings us near, takes us away. What would you call that?
Irony?
Anyway, I hate when they play the dead.
Music never dies.
It doesn’t? I thought it never lived. I wonder how we can’t agree on anything.
But to be together.
Is this your idea of being together?
I don’t know.
No you are right; you are here, so am I. Ever contemplated why we are together—as you say. What keeps us that way?
What?
Sadness.
I said, people are together—in love—for happiness.
We aint people.
Words…words. You are lost in words.
I tried to take you along. I tried to share the odyssey.
I too feel lost.
Not found?
I don’t know, I don’t know anything.
You hate me?
I don’t know.
I do. I do hate you.
Why not leave me then?
Neither can I have you, nor leave. I hate you for that. 'I cannot let you burn me up nor can I resist you'
That’s beautiful.
Yeah! Because, someone else wrote it.
Regrets?
Many.
Then?
I prefer these, at least I feel alive.
You are masochistic too.
Me? Or us?
I sometimes think I was better off without you.
You were. Anyway isn’t it Beethoven?
You are running again.
I aint, I just don’t want to ruin the day. You were born today remember?
I don’t. They told me. No one remembers being born.
That’s philosophical, I like that.
You are contagious.
Infectious would be precise. Anyway I lost my eloquence.
No its all there debating with other beautiful women.
That makes you jealous?
I think it does.
Flatter yourself, believe that you dumbfound me.
I can, but not for long—this long.
When was the last time you cried?
What kind of question is that?
My kind.
You want to see me cry?
I can see it; don’t know if I want it. Don’t. It’s your birthday remember.
Wow what a way to baby me?
Doesn’t it help? I thought I was rather soothing.
Who is better with scalpel? Me or you now?
I mean to appease, can’t help it if my hands are crude. And look at these; I don’t have any dagger hidden. My close fists don’t have dirt for you. It’s just that they are dirt.
You are hurt again.
No. Not this time.
Gosh! Over all that time I never touched your hands. I need to see how crude they are.
I was speaking metaphorically.
I aint.
I am supposed to give you nothing today.
I know you’d find a way for that—you have a way for that.
Not giving you anything doesn’t mean I give you nothing.
I know that, we’ve been together just enough for me to make these discriminations.
Fuck that, fuck everything, how much time do you have?
Thirty minutes maybe.
Let’s make good use of that then?
What’d be that?
Haha fuck. I hate the fact they don’t have motels here.
What is wrong with you? You know I always hated these sudden mood swings. I don’t like it when you swear.
I don’t give a shit anymore.
You never gave a shit.
What do you want me to do? Preach? Recite you a lullaby or what?
You were never good at both.
I was never good at anything. Had I been, you’d not have Thirty minutes. What do you think I am, dying for the occasional alms from your time?
Are you blaming me for anything? You have your life, I don’t want—No—I don’t deserve any piece of it, all I ever asked were some moments every once in a while. It’s me living on the remains of your time. Its … me … I shouldn’t have been here.
You shouldn’t have been. Anyway don’t cry. It makes me hate my fucking impotency.
How does she look?
Who?
You know whom I mean.
She is beautiful. I have my sympathies. And just for your peace of mind, I haven’t yet started screwing her.
Are you on some rampage of revenge against all women because of me? Why won’t you kill me once and all?
I want sadness to prevail. I want you to burn as I do.
I am already dead.
Nah! Ask him, I can bet he still loves fucking you all night long.
That is enough, I am leaving. I will not see you again.
You said that last time. So stop masquerading, you aint fooling anyone but yourself sweetheart. And of course you will never want to make a spectacle here. You never could bear eyes on you.
I can’t stand it—stand this—stand us—the way things are—any more.
You will survive. I am. …………. We don’t have much time, say something, don’t waste it. People have written about love, passion, sex and all, I’ll write about us… what shall I call this? Frugal Love maybe.
When was the last time I read what you wrote?
I don’t remember.
Ah I am not privileged enough to read now.
No. its not that. I don’t need to recite my scriptures of flagellation to take you to bed you see.
That is hurtful; you desecrated your writing even. What for?
Was it me, or you? I am not the one sleeping in someone’s bed everynight.
Oh yes, you do that occasionally, and some-ones change.
I hate this place; nobody plays classicals anymore but this godforsaken café.
That’s what you loved about it…Once.
Once.
Its Satie again: its gymnopedies.
I need to hear thunder, not moaning winds.
I need to hear a story, any story that you wrote.
Darling, I don’t memorize those, and btw, I am writing about whores after you.
What are you trying to imply?
Nothing, I am telling you what I write. Still eager?
I am afraid. I am afraid what may happen. I am afraid, they, he’ll become suspicious.
So what difference would it make? This sporadic togetherness will die away.
I told you, I fear being all alone.
You have people.
People are not you.
We never had each other.
Why don’t you understand? I know I was never spontaneous, never verbose, never able to tell you, but I thought you knew. I don’t have anything but THIS—you.
You watched a lot romantic movies in your teens I guess. You are hallucinated. Come out of these deliriums, I am only flesh and dirt, and NO… I aint integrated in your soul or anything, if that even exists. Let me say it, once, beyond selfishness that shrouds me, get rid of me. Start living.
I don’t want to, I cant, wont. And besides, I have a feeling; it is you trying to get rid of me, still shrouded by the same selfishness.
You want to live in delusions, rather a delusion: me. Reducing me to that. That is so humiliating.
I cherish this, love this more than everything, I live for it. And still, you say I disregard you.
Arghhh. Fuck all that. Its your birthday remember. The day without which, nothing of whatever the hell this is would have been possible.
How good that would have been, for you. I am sorry.
We all are, stop being a goddess.
I am not one.
Let me get you something, you look scrawny.
No I am trying hard not to throw up already.
Haha I am that nauseous?
Its not you, its me, its me inside me. Its sadness maybe.
Inconsequential beings we are, wedged in our bonds of sadness, madness, and angels so love raping us for kicks.
Don’t say this, God is Just. Its just we don’t can’t apprehend.
Then try justifying this so-just justice mother Mary.
Ah, you are so good with sarcasm, I told you, and you are the one better with that scalpel.
I know where it hurts; I hurt myself to uncover this myth of pain love, I sacrificed.
The coffee is turning you on; you look so – so good in self indulged babbling.
Nah, I am irresistible, I am getting a great number of good fucks lately.
Do you do the same with others? Or am I still the privileged one, unworthy one to get such disdain?
No, though I do fake sadness, that’s my coup de grace: sad love, sad lovers, tears and a gloomy zero bulb, and smoke in bed. All-together make a lethal dose, believe me.
I believe you. Can we change the topic?
We can but tell me, how does he like it? I want to know. Tell me stories of your nights love, I need to know.
Please… Stop doing that…I’ll die.
Ah finally the tears roll down, I am much moved madam, I can now sell my soul to devil for you, or whatever is left of it.
--
People will see, and so he will know, the redness prevails in your case. Don’t cry.
No one is different, all are vultures. You, him. Eat me away, but for heavens devour me soon, it’s unbearable.
Dead don’t complain.
Yes I shouldn’t…. You look tired and drowsy.
Insomnia.
Why can’t you take care of yourself?
I remember you telling me you loved my voice when I am drowsy.
Yes. Coming back from some distant place, intermingled with echo, its own echo, so charming, each line, each word.
I am not good with compliments, especially when the ah-so-gracious tongue is chomped by someone else.
Fait Accompali… you are staring at me.
I am memorizing you, to have you once This ends, the same silhouette the same lines on your face, gloom in your eyes, tremor in your body.
You trust your memory?
I don’t trust reminiscence, its not that diaphanous, its mean, manipulating.
What are you thinking? Precisely now.
I am reciting something I once read, in a story of two secret lovers, much like us, though it was the girl who said it.
What?
O lente, lente currite noctis equi… ‘Run slow, run slow, O horses of night’.
Why would you want time to run slow, don’t you want it fast, faster, so that whatever is going to happen, happens.
Not until I preserve you, in memory. Let the hammer of que sara sara wait, it can wait. I could, if I had the last laugh.
I wonder at times, you could be happy. Hadn’t it been me.
You are having those self righteous, god-like delusions again. That is so kind of you, I want to appreciate it but NO. I detest it.
You hate kindness?
No, when people, men and woman, try to be kind. Pretentious motherfuckers, making a fool out of themselves. I prefer… I always preferred you mean.
What didn’t you prefer in me then?
Timidity, venglessness, and what brings it all. Fear.
So you mean to say, you are fright—less.
Did I say that, but I can always hate me.
And me.
Bach is so depressingly rapacious.
What?
He eats hearts, sinks. These cello suites made me cry in old days.
I have to go
Everyone has to. Anyway how did you plan and all?
I’ll have to call him, sometime soon I guess, I’ll tell him where to pick me up. He is nearby today.
Call him here, I can always change tables. Haha cellular revolution has helped infidelity for sure if not anything.
Can I touch your hands?
What do you imagine, a thunderbolt sweeping across the body? A shudder in the spine, that feels so scared, and divine? Its all bullshit my love, we remain flesh, those romanticists just fucked up your mind.
You don’t want me to touch you? If all that is nothing then why do you fear?
Maybe I fear the thunderbolts myself. That’s what you wanted to hear, alright?
I feel ugly.
You are beautiful; people always told you that, so did I. I am sadistic dear, I want longings. Besides I am giving you nothing today.
The music is really depressing, can’t they change it?
Haha, this is more than a deep meaningful line, just think about what you just said.
I am not into linguistics, I can’t deconstruct, and I don’t mean what you supposed I do.
Wow, seems someday is bored of a psicko-foolosophical overly ostentatious piece of shit.
How can I be bored of something, I never actually had. Anyway I am calling him, to pick me up from here.
--
--

2005-08-19T19:45:00.000+05:00

memoirs we name these— infinite scriptures of flagellation, written in blood and love or bloody love.Ergo I live, so do thee, Ibid we die.

A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING. by John Donne

2005-08-04T13:49:00.000+05:00

AS virtuous men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"Now his breath goes," and some say, "No."

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No tear-floods, nor sigh-tempests move ; '
Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears ;
Men reckon what it did, and meant ;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers' love
—Whose soul is sense—cannot admit
Of absence, 'cause it doth remove
The thing which elemented it.

But we by a love so much refined,
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less, eyes, lips and hands to miss.

Our two souls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to aery thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run ;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

P.S
For someone who wouldn't know until i say so, this poem is about distant lovers. Distant Lovers. Distant. Lovers. Distant. Distant. Lovers. Distace and lovers.
Before it gets under your skin, the distance, I recite this as the reassuarance of my centre. [Mine. Centre.] "I end where i begin"

A portion from Wharton's The Age of Innocence

2005-08-01T17:37:00.000+05:00

"Is it your idea, then, that I should live with you as your mistress--since I can't be your wife?" she asked.
The crudeness of the question startled him: the word was one that women of his class fought shy of, even when their talk flitted closest about the topic. He noticed that Madame Olenska pronounced it as if it had a recognised place in her vocabulary, and he wondered if it had been used familiarly in her presence in the horrible life she had fled from. Her question pulled him up with a jerk, and he floundered.
"I want--I want somehow to get away with you in to a world where words like that--categories like that--won't exist. Where we shall be simply two humanbeings who love each other, who are the whole of life to each other; and nothing else on earth will matter."
She drew a deep sigh that ended in another laugh."Oh, my dear--where is that country? Have you ever been there?" she asked; and as he remained sullenly dumb she went on: "I know so many who've tried to find it; and, believe me, they all got out by mistake at wayside stations: at places like Boulogne, or Pisa, or Monte Carlo--and it wasn't at all different from the old world they'd left, but only rather smaller and dingier and more promiscuous."

Something Poemish, raw still...and Incomplete )

2005-07-24T03:46:00.000+05:00

The night, night voluptuous crawls
Over and under his citadel .
Such a lycantrophic being is he;
A bricolage made, of moon and moans,
Seasoned with an orgasmic fright.
To the textual gods, he pays his homage;
And lonliness and the sorrowful delight.
Cried in jouissance, didn't die;
And wades through his trampled walk
Along common loves and uncommon lovers
And labyrinths converge-- at silence and Mozart
The prayers were said-- fables told
Of dead mothers and estranged brothers
Of Trivialities and wars lost
Such a rendezvous, such disscociation
Mirrors, images, and that was all.

A haiku

2005-07-23T16:01:00.000+05:00

Love begets love
It is an old adage
Seems all new

2005-07-18T02:14:00.000+05:00

People expect people to play gods.
Whose fault is that?
gods'?
People's?
Expectations?

I am not God still

2005-07-04T17:43:00.000+05:00

Text is all, all is text. That marks my incarceration, my impotencey. We created fables together, constructed textual realities and illusions, delusions. I don't care if I existed only in that simulation or your delirium, and that library of babel and fabel existed in three dimensions or i made believe it did. I imagine nothing, yet assume something, what if I could see -as if i cant know- Infinity. Or where did the collage of body parts and and fantasy lead us both too? That collage was a text, the scared gospel of OUrtext; I wonder when did that text transformed into the simulation of a simulation? Why didn't I see that all?Textual beings we are; and funny as text-I may be assuming again- inherently remains. Past is a remembrance only, and future doesn't exist, and yet I thought if only i could turn back the time. And will i be turing it back or forth? I guess I can never know; I am not God still.
A laughter that reminds of a pyschopath I saw somewhere in some movie, is missing. What is left of you and me is text.But can I, or Can't i, buy my way out of the theory? What would be the penalty? What would be the price? Or is that just what you gave me ? I couldn't ever thank you enough for ever. Maybe i can't now.
I am not God still.

2005-07-04T04:25:00.000+05:00

Words aren't worth a dime; then again, maybe they are Milady.
And is there another way to put it but to say 'she fucking hates me'? Incoherent as i was ever, still stand here confused and wretched, thinking how can she love me so, to hate me so ...
Maybe you were always labyrinthine, and i thought i knew you through and through. There will be an end - so soon that i wouldn't be able to cherish the fragmentation as ever- but was there a beginning? Or is there ever? or was i too blind?
This text i know, is a multiplicity, it'd mean diffrently with the varying readers and their re-readings and re-re-readings and i'd be dead in my traditional capacity as the author: the creator. Someone said that. I guess it was Barthes. So no matter how hard i try not to mean, i'll end my disassociating the ecstasy of my covering wih the heat outside; and no matter how hard to mean i'd still be meaning nothing. You may not ever find you in this text, as i found me in yours, but you'd always be there.
Thats my word, I give you that.
But words aren't worth a dime.

His confidence by W.B.Yeats

2005-07-04T04:22:00.000+05:00

Undying love to buy
I wrote upon
The corners of this eye
All wrongs done.What payment were enough
For undying love?

I broke my heart in two
So hard I struck.
What matter? for I know
That out of rock,Out of a desolate source,
Love leaps upon its course.

Tool Schism ...

2005-07-04T04:18:00.000+05:00

I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them fall away
Mildewed and smoldering. Fundamental differing.
Pure intention juxtaposed will set two lovers souls in motion
Disintegrating as it goes testing our communication
The light that fueled our fire then has burned a hole between us so
We cannot see to reach an end crippling our communication.
I know the pieces fit cuz I watched them tumble down
No fault, none to blame it doesn't mean I don't desire to
Point the finger, blame the other, watch the temple topple over.
To bring the pieces back together, rediscover communication
The poetry that comes from the squaring off between,
And the circling is worth it.
Finding beauty in the dissonance.
There was a time that the pieces fit, but I watched them fall away.
Mildewed and smoldering, strangled by our coveting
I've done the math enough to know the dangers of our second guessing
Doomed to crumble unless we grow, and strengthen our communication.
Cold silence has a tendency to atrophy any
Sense of compassion
Between supposed lovers

untitled...(i thought it was a story btw)

2005-07-04T03:42:00.000+05:00

(This story is dedicated to one of the very few women i care about: Madnas )

The END:

He just returned after burying the old skeleton, knocked at the door and was waiting for her to open, when he saw blackwinds howling all around, carrying those disgusting vultures with helpless seagulls in their maxillas. When the Blackwinds returned, leaving the leeches sucking on him, HerOldman appeared at his back.
Had there been a vestige of warmth in the ice, she would have known how it feels to feel a-mazed.
He mumbles:
Talk to me, my loneliness, I you apostrophize, through certain interludes and still air. Wait. How to say it aloud, so that she may hear. It’s a struggling I chalking out frenetic paths after a day, laden with a present. Will vanish tomorrow. Heavy. But dry and dull. Where’s the gushing forth a collage of body parts, the blood milk and urine, together, unmixed. Where is she. Why is she. Who is she. Who is the man, I want to kill so badly, kill and eat his heart, burn his liver and chew his tongue. The man. The HerOldman.
The door Opened:
She smiled at him, the same eerie smile. 'You are late, want some tea?' And he the HerOldman stood beside her. Enough was enough, but was it? And what was enough, He couldn't have cared less. He raised the dagger and stabbed her heart. He screamed 'Come and penetrate her again,' And stabbed her again. He screamed. He stabbed. And drank. And then painted 'their' home with her blood. He bathed. He drank. He stabbed. He screamed.

She:

“Image of emptiness before emptiness. Biting into the apple, did Eve know, she was devouring her soul? What if the book were only infinite memory of a word lacking? Thus absence speaks to absence.

Imagine a day without a day behind it, a night without a previous night. Imagine Nothing and something in the middle of Nothing. What if you were told this tiny something was you?”

She was nothing yet yes she was she but no was she for she never was the one she he thought she was yet she was she and yes she knew fur elise before it became the ice-cream rhythm and was a lunatic when she played that sonate and yes on the way she was alienated and disgruntled and yes b4 and after transition she mutated back and forth to she yes she was nonpareil yet many she was the one but any yes she was she and no and yes there were people hijras and transvestites and vaginabonds and she knew there were and yet she was afraid yet loved the fright and yes and no and that’s how it all went and that’s how was the time sureceased and the centre was austere and oscillations were denied and wedged-in was she yet she was she and on the way she became a collage of madness and annieone that was not he thought yes but inexorable was she inevitable the collage and the mirage and the illusions and seclusions she thought she'd choose at free will yes she believed in free will which was another illusion illusion seclusion collage mirage wasn’t it an old adage of loving and being loved yes it was and yes he was she and there was no them and there wont be an Us and yes they knew that HerOldman lives and will outlive yet they were they.

HErOldman:

Skeletons are funny. In closets specially.
HerOldman wasn’t a skeleton but he shouldhave been in a closet. He was there always beside her: Between them. Hideous. Like a coating film between their hands when they were clamped together, and the air between the two when they spoke, and as the hidrosis between the bodies when they fucked. He was always there "mocking abnegations', deriding his limitations, jeering his ineptitude, laughing at his lame erections. His laugh, his grotesque laugh was a flambeau, setting ablaze the shit out of him, he was now tired of collecting and cherishing his incinerated ashes. Who the fuck HerOldman thought he was, how could he call his 'atonement ' volatile, his astonishment pesudo-phile, his attachment holy-vile. He was always there, when she played the piano, or threw her guitar in the sea, or listened to Malsteem in her high-esteem days. He had to be killed, to set her free, to set hisself free.
He was his desire. Fire. Passé Impasse, and perpetual still. Kill, kill, kill the motherfucker, kill. He searched for him, in her smile, her frailtities, her strength, everywhere from the curves of her body to the orifices in her soul. In the palmystery of the rivers of fate in her hands, to the blackholes of her eyes. In the furrow of her brow to the perforations in her skin. He was there everywhere, yet nowhere. He was HerOldman. he named him, maimed hisself in naming him, embellished him, textured and smoothened him; he knew him all too well. He was HerOldman.

The Search:

‘Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?’
‘Nothing is nearer to thee than thyself.’
‘But I seek thee.’
‘If thou know not thyself how canst thou know anything else?’
‘I sought thee in the earth, in atmasphere, in history. I rummaged through the caves, history and tradition, and I found so many things but thee. And in the mdju nether, in semiology I found thy presage, thy name, thy prognostication. I searched thee in the words’ worths and in the sainthood , but insatiated I am, as I was ever. Why mea-master why?’
‘Hitherto thou shall come but no further’
‘I’d die mea-master I’d die’
‘To be born again, first one needs to die’
‘And then mea-master’
‘Await re-birth’
‘And shall I find thee then?’
‘Thou found me in this life even. Remember the madness you derided, that was me. ’
‘And shall I find him again?’
‘Why not, he is thy murderer, in this life and all others ’

Them:

"Little ridiculous fantasies of teentimes. And what we wanted was a connection; through rejection. All that we ever wanted was a connection. Interjections. Junctions. Not injunctions. No subjugation: but wait! What is what? When? To whom? How? Define or explain? Or even if not, care to share? Wearyily aware of the statactics of Psickological tygoons, Eye, rigid, , made my ways through sunrays into…into darker alleys, illusive valleys, popular fallacies, physchofoolosopical maladies. Morbid lilies I wanted to wean me of your blood"

"Let’s sing in the rain, and in the clear sky, Starling fly fly fly, we have a song, the nightday song and the daynight song, our song.”

Twinkle twinkle little star
I don’t give a fuck who you are...
As a Pothead on a high
Like a diamond in the sky...

This connection:

"This truly cannot be said and needs no explanation. It’s still all a confusion. What to do, to say. How to or not to cry. It’s sadness itself—inability to be sad. And then fear forcing sadness over and above. Over and above moonlight. Yes, yes, she’s still around, Milady, and it’s only our eyes that can’t see. You are right. You felt the truth. Moonlight encircle us if that sadness be. Peace go away if that sadness be. Because I want to be sad and I wanto shed tears. Real tears. That tear you from yourself—if that has any meaning. This writing thinks it has to be under erasure. Coincidental beings we are. She is fine. And must be happy. She remembered her God again. Yes, that’s lucky Milady, you speak truly. What more to say?
This to Adam’s mother—may God bless her soul and keep her all in Himself, in bliss, in peace.
Amen."

The beginning:

There wasn't any, never will be.