Monday, December 18, 2006
Monday, August 07, 2006
It’s hilarious. It’s a hilarious rain-sorrow filled paper cup. Just don’t let it surprise you. It’s not semen or anything. It’s just rain-sorrow.
I feel really terrible when you cry because you can’t hold her hand, or when he looks through you or something. I feel terrible for you and me, and also them. I feel terrible for everybody sometimes, but that’s just life…in its most resplendent natural form. It’s being a bitch again. Don’t cry or anything. It’s just the way things are sometimes.
It was a nice day that day. Just the way the Chinese lanterns were lit up above us all - it was almost night, drizzling a little and we were having cheap takeaway coffee. It was super-cool. I loved that day. I don’t remember a word of what was said. And that’s great, ‘cause I usually remember every fucking thing. But I didn’t forget the music: Through the din, the clatter of plates and cups on the sidewalk cafes, the other voices and shuffling feet.
That day never came back, though we all tried to recreate magic in our puny little ways.
Back home, it was all different. There was discontent everywhere – in the way phones were answered, in classroom conversations, in stolen kisses. People were too poor or too rich or Marxists. Or intelligent. Discontent and suffering everywhere. And I missed the goddamn Chinese lanterns and the dishwater coffee, the cold and wet night, our little group. But someone’s cynical laughter distracted me, and we shared a cigarette and wiped the sweat of our brows, talking about things we weren’t too sure of.
Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.
But like I said: it’s not all bad. We’re really good to each other sometimes. We’re good to other people. We still discover new things – in the backyard, in ourselves. And then on a really, really good day, when you turn off the TV, and turn on the rich sax sounds and do a wild jig with me, it’s cool. Not super, but cool.
I feel really terrible when you cry because you can’t hold her hand, or when he looks through you or something. I feel terrible for you and me, and also them. I feel terrible for everybody sometimes, but that’s just life…in its most resplendent natural form. It’s being a bitch again. Don’t cry or anything. It’s just the way things are sometimes.
It was a nice day that day. Just the way the Chinese lanterns were lit up above us all - it was almost night, drizzling a little and we were having cheap takeaway coffee. It was super-cool. I loved that day. I don’t remember a word of what was said. And that’s great, ‘cause I usually remember every fucking thing. But I didn’t forget the music: Through the din, the clatter of plates and cups on the sidewalk cafes, the other voices and shuffling feet.
That day never came back, though we all tried to recreate magic in our puny little ways.
Back home, it was all different. There was discontent everywhere – in the way phones were answered, in classroom conversations, in stolen kisses. People were too poor or too rich or Marxists. Or intelligent. Discontent and suffering everywhere. And I missed the goddamn Chinese lanterns and the dishwater coffee, the cold and wet night, our little group. But someone’s cynical laughter distracted me, and we shared a cigarette and wiped the sweat of our brows, talking about things we weren’t too sure of.
Sometimes I think we’ve got it again… when we lean against each other like uncared books in a dusty shelf. And when you tell me about your little quixotic plans. I love you like mad then. But then you look away, like you’ve made a mistake…or like you have more important things to do…or like you’ve said too much. I don’t know what I do then. Probably look at my hands or nod idiotically, laugh unexpectedly or something. What does one do, when they feel love slip so clumsily out of their hands? I am certain I look as silly as you do.
But like I said: it’s not all bad. We’re really good to each other sometimes. We’re good to other people. We still discover new things – in the backyard, in ourselves. And then on a really, really good day, when you turn off the TV, and turn on the rich sax sounds and do a wild jig with me, it’s cool. Not super, but cool.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Walk along with your broken feet
On a broken road, on a broken street
Sir, a token for your merriness,
Here, have your fun.
Sing aloud with your hollow voice,
And let the hallowed hall ring
With jelly coughs, shuffles and chattering teeth.
When you lie on a cold, hard bed
And cold rain seeps through the ceiling cracks,
And the clock tick-tocks like a madness in your head,
What do you do?
Feel yourself for cuts and bruises, I suppose:
Squalor avenged through body art in permanent ink.
A little angry youth preserved - a little hate, a little love,
A little bit of a broken heart?
And you may not know, but I have seen you stare
Heaven-ward with your soul-sucked eyes -
Taking a breath, and going back to graffiti Gods
And tiny, shared cigarettes.
And maybe you feel a peace and ease
In this madness that, I will never know.
But I know somewhere,
Beyond the fangled wastelands,
Scribbled notes and doodled stuff –
There is a happier you.
On a broken road, on a broken street
Sir, a token for your merriness,
Here, have your fun.
Sing aloud with your hollow voice,
And let the hallowed hall ring
With jelly coughs, shuffles and chattering teeth.
When you lie on a cold, hard bed
And cold rain seeps through the ceiling cracks,
And the clock tick-tocks like a madness in your head,
What do you do?
Feel yourself for cuts and bruises, I suppose:
Squalor avenged through body art in permanent ink.
A little angry youth preserved - a little hate, a little love,
A little bit of a broken heart?
And you may not know, but I have seen you stare
Heaven-ward with your soul-sucked eyes -
Taking a breath, and going back to graffiti Gods
And tiny, shared cigarettes.
And maybe you feel a peace and ease
In this madness that, I will never know.
But I know somewhere,
Beyond the fangled wastelands,
Scribbled notes and doodled stuff –
There is a happier you.
Friday, June 16, 2006
It was the hour of ghosts. And it was surreal, running with high heels on the empty street which boasted of so much life, just a little while back. The lights looked dim. And the shops were all closed. Cars whizzed past occasionally. The pitch roads were slick with rain, steaming a little. I don’t know what I was doing. It was a ridiculous night. A little drunk, a little insane. I was trying to feel the full force of being twenty. There was a bitter-sweet, happy-sad energy, pulsating through my veins… and I needed to be drunk, I needed to run…although why, I cannot tell.
Slow down, a couple of voices said. And I couldn’t, because I didn’t know where my legs were. And I had a notion that, I had probably fallen…but it didn’t hurt. I felt young and reckless, and the sky was so goddamn majestic, looming over this puny little street, this city, this earth, me. I felt small, but deliriously happy. A pair of tragic eyes met mine. Everything was so upside down at the moment. Get up, he said. So I let my body do whatever it wanted to do and I think it got up.
I was walking now, rested against another body. Oh what lovely designs everything made when we walked. I can do what I want, right? I asked. And those eyes just looked ahead patiently, waiting for the madness to recede. Oh please, c’mon, tell me, I’m super, right? And I didn’t really care for answers, because I floated effortlessly across the street, feeling super, super alright.
Will you tell my parents? I suddenly asked, feeling this horrible feeling at the pit of my stomach. Tell them what, the voice right next to me spoke. That I’m stupid? I said, feeling stinging tears roll down my face unannounced. I thought you were super, not stupid, the body that held me said. I’m just twenty, goddamn it, just twenty, I said unhappily.
My voice chimed in my head. I said things, but what I don’t know. It was like a sweet irritation, like a healing sprain, inside me. And I remember the police asking questions and whole lot of other crap, which is quite honestly a blur now. But there was no trouble as far as I can remember. Just an exchange of polite words and money.
Well, congratulations once again, some distant voices said. Yes, it was a great dinner, a great party. Can you drop me home? I asked. But I was standing all alone, and was so far away from that familiar, colourful street. There were no tragic eyes next to me. No happy bantering. No arms to steady me. I didn’t know where the hell I was. There was a door that I was leaning against. And it looked a lot like the one we had at home. But I couldn’t be sure. Heck, I had no goddamn clue.
Slow down, a couple of voices said. And I couldn’t, because I didn’t know where my legs were. And I had a notion that, I had probably fallen…but it didn’t hurt. I felt young and reckless, and the sky was so goddamn majestic, looming over this puny little street, this city, this earth, me. I felt small, but deliriously happy. A pair of tragic eyes met mine. Everything was so upside down at the moment. Get up, he said. So I let my body do whatever it wanted to do and I think it got up.
I was walking now, rested against another body. Oh what lovely designs everything made when we walked. I can do what I want, right? I asked. And those eyes just looked ahead patiently, waiting for the madness to recede. Oh please, c’mon, tell me, I’m super, right? And I didn’t really care for answers, because I floated effortlessly across the street, feeling super, super alright.
Will you tell my parents? I suddenly asked, feeling this horrible feeling at the pit of my stomach. Tell them what, the voice right next to me spoke. That I’m stupid? I said, feeling stinging tears roll down my face unannounced. I thought you were super, not stupid, the body that held me said. I’m just twenty, goddamn it, just twenty, I said unhappily.
My voice chimed in my head. I said things, but what I don’t know. It was like a sweet irritation, like a healing sprain, inside me. And I remember the police asking questions and whole lot of other crap, which is quite honestly a blur now. But there was no trouble as far as I can remember. Just an exchange of polite words and money.
Well, congratulations once again, some distant voices said. Yes, it was a great dinner, a great party. Can you drop me home? I asked. But I was standing all alone, and was so far away from that familiar, colourful street. There were no tragic eyes next to me. No happy bantering. No arms to steady me. I didn’t know where the hell I was. There was a door that I was leaning against. And it looked a lot like the one we had at home. But I couldn’t be sure. Heck, I had no goddamn clue.
Friday, March 24, 2006
*It’s ridiculous how much you can love some people. It’s like this knotty overwhelming feeling that, punches you in the guts sometimes. It’s what makes you check to see if a person is still breathing or not if he’s not snoring.
**Ray held an orange against a marmalade sky. And he wore a dizzy blue shirt and had bright red scratches on his arms. I wonder what happened to him. He probably turned into a beautiful little picture, between the pages of my diary.
It’s all bullshit, he said. What is, I asked. It’s ridiculous, he said. What is, I asked. The way you write godammit, he said. What are you posing for, I asked. I am not, he said. He then grinned suddenly. He always grinned suddenly. And his sooty grey eyes turned wild and dangerous when he did that. Let’s go, he said. And I followed without asking where.
Ray, you are a strange, strange man, I told him. You smell like an Indian kitchen, he said, digging into dal puris. I am an Indian kitchen, I said. I am strange, he said. I still hate the way you write, he said licking his fingers. So what, I said, I can cook well. And we both ran down some empty wet road, like cricket balls hit for a six.
***I stood with others like me, in front of our favourite dhaba, sipping sweet cha. Colourful girls in kurtas and patialas, with interesting jholas and dangly earrings. It started raining, lightly at first and then harder, and I sang some rainy song, really softly, so that no-one could hear me, but myself. What are you muttering about, dangly earrings asked. Nothing, I said. No, you are always doing things like this, interesting jhola observed. I’m just singing, I said. Then why can’t you sing louder pipsqueak, yellow kurta exhorted. I don’t know, I said. I sipped tea and looked at the slick wet roads over the muddy rim of the cup. The boys joined us, a while later. Disheveled and dirty on purpose, with pants that were so loose that their underwear showed. With sneers and crisp witticisms and observations on their lips. Colourful boys and girls in the rain, smoking and sipping tea and talking about Satyajit Ray, Eliot, Pink Floyd and revolutions. And I stood there hunched and spectre thin. Maybe I wasn’t like them at all.
****The metro ride home was lonely, squashed in with people wet with sweat and rain and discontent. Like sitting on a wet toilet seat, first thing in the morning. I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed: I’ll go here, go there, I’ll do this, I’ll do that. I stood on the vestibule, where you’re not supposed to stand and dreamed, only to be interrupted once in a while by indecisive passengers, who kept changing compartments. The jerky khatakhat-khaat, khatakhat-khaat noise of the train and the lovely zephyr that blew through the torn edges of the vestibule took me to another world. And the lonely people of course. Of course, I’m sure not all them were lonely. Maybe it was the lights… the distant look in their eyes... the mis-en-scene of the entire compartment. I remembered standing here once and reading bits of Toni Morrison’s “Jazz”, about Violet and her lonely life.
*****Nothing, nothing makes sense, Ray said. You? You are saying that, I asked, bewildered and heart-broken. Who am I? I am nobody, he said. No, no, no, you’re everybody I argued. You can be anyone, I insisted. And he grinned and asked me where we were going to go today. I was relieved. Anywhere, anywhere, I said. To a rocky cliff then, he said. With a swirling sea below, I said. And an oak tree, leaning over the edge, he said. And a swing attached to one of its heavy branches, I added. Yes, let’s go, he said. And we both went.
**Ray held an orange against a marmalade sky. And he wore a dizzy blue shirt and had bright red scratches on his arms. I wonder what happened to him. He probably turned into a beautiful little picture, between the pages of my diary.
It’s all bullshit, he said. What is, I asked. It’s ridiculous, he said. What is, I asked. The way you write godammit, he said. What are you posing for, I asked. I am not, he said. He then grinned suddenly. He always grinned suddenly. And his sooty grey eyes turned wild and dangerous when he did that. Let’s go, he said. And I followed without asking where.
Ray, you are a strange, strange man, I told him. You smell like an Indian kitchen, he said, digging into dal puris. I am an Indian kitchen, I said. I am strange, he said. I still hate the way you write, he said licking his fingers. So what, I said, I can cook well. And we both ran down some empty wet road, like cricket balls hit for a six.
***I stood with others like me, in front of our favourite dhaba, sipping sweet cha. Colourful girls in kurtas and patialas, with interesting jholas and dangly earrings. It started raining, lightly at first and then harder, and I sang some rainy song, really softly, so that no-one could hear me, but myself. What are you muttering about, dangly earrings asked. Nothing, I said. No, you are always doing things like this, interesting jhola observed. I’m just singing, I said. Then why can’t you sing louder pipsqueak, yellow kurta exhorted. I don’t know, I said. I sipped tea and looked at the slick wet roads over the muddy rim of the cup. The boys joined us, a while later. Disheveled and dirty on purpose, with pants that were so loose that their underwear showed. With sneers and crisp witticisms and observations on their lips. Colourful boys and girls in the rain, smoking and sipping tea and talking about Satyajit Ray, Eliot, Pink Floyd and revolutions. And I stood there hunched and spectre thin. Maybe I wasn’t like them at all.
****The metro ride home was lonely, squashed in with people wet with sweat and rain and discontent. Like sitting on a wet toilet seat, first thing in the morning. I dreamed and dreamed and dreamed: I’ll go here, go there, I’ll do this, I’ll do that. I stood on the vestibule, where you’re not supposed to stand and dreamed, only to be interrupted once in a while by indecisive passengers, who kept changing compartments. The jerky khatakhat-khaat, khatakhat-khaat noise of the train and the lovely zephyr that blew through the torn edges of the vestibule took me to another world. And the lonely people of course. Of course, I’m sure not all them were lonely. Maybe it was the lights… the distant look in their eyes... the mis-en-scene of the entire compartment. I remembered standing here once and reading bits of Toni Morrison’s “Jazz”, about Violet and her lonely life.
*****Nothing, nothing makes sense, Ray said. You? You are saying that, I asked, bewildered and heart-broken. Who am I? I am nobody, he said. No, no, no, you’re everybody I argued. You can be anyone, I insisted. And he grinned and asked me where we were going to go today. I was relieved. Anywhere, anywhere, I said. To a rocky cliff then, he said. With a swirling sea below, I said. And an oak tree, leaning over the edge, he said. And a swing attached to one of its heavy branches, I added. Yes, let’s go, he said. And we both went.
Monday, March 20, 2006
Victor's Room
It was a room that cast a spell on you.
The bookshelves boasted of all the right books
And the lazy lounge chair and svelte lamp
Like a Moroccan don and vixen vamp
Invited you smoothly, blowing smoke rings into your face.
Sit down, sit down.
The window stared into a narrow cobblestone street.
Outside, burnt brick houses leaned over each other,
- Ponderous, pondering, smoking a little.
Inside, a fire burnt assiduously
Dancing, bickering and bantering with fellow flames.
Rosemary prepared the coffee.
And silver spoons and coffee cups
Waited eagerly, and importantly like bright children.
Victor was old.
He didn’t bother with hats, suits
Or patent leather shoes.
He stayed at home and watched the news.
He read a lot,
Settling down comfortably on the Moroccan don
And smoking rare Cuban cigars and Java coffee fumes.
He’d travel thrice a year.
Some place exotic and new.
But quiet, with plenty of solitude.
Victor was old.
Sometimes he missed the tangerine perfume
That once invaded this room.
Victor dreamed sometimes, when he finished reading
The yellowed pages of some old, worn book.
He dreamt of woods and jungles
And a strange red earth…
And a perfume, yes, the most divine perfume,
Of tangerine with a lemon’s twist.
Of olive skin and guitars
And rain in December.
He imagined he heard laughter sometimes…
And mirthful voices that bantered
Like the flames in his hearth.
And the eyes, of course the eyes –
Dark, stormy, gypsy eyes
That, veiled themselves with thick eyelashes
And an elusive vagueness.
Yes, Victor dreamed sometimes.
Was it this room? Of course it was.
Where a flower, a powerful, powerful flower
Was brought and kept for everyone to see.
Its lavish petals enthralled all,
And its sweet smell intoxicated.
And Victor, nourished the earth
That his prized possession grew on.
Right next to the Japanese paintings
And Russian dolls,
Pushed against a green-apple wall,
The one with the window,
In a most exquisite vase.
The flower lived out its life
And faded...
It never replicated.
And Victor settled for some less exotic daisies.
And as he sits, by the warm fire
Reading a book, leather-bound and kind of dull…
Victor feels a little chill.
Like a breathy whisper -
Of frozen citrus perfume.
And he cannot help it as he chokes,
On some powerful unseen beauty,
And the coffee grows cold
And the glowing cigar-end turns to ashes…
The bookshelves boasted of all the right books
And the lazy lounge chair and svelte lamp
Like a Moroccan don and vixen vamp
Invited you smoothly, blowing smoke rings into your face.
Sit down, sit down.
The window stared into a narrow cobblestone street.
Outside, burnt brick houses leaned over each other,
- Ponderous, pondering, smoking a little.
Inside, a fire burnt assiduously
Dancing, bickering and bantering with fellow flames.
Rosemary prepared the coffee.
And silver spoons and coffee cups
Waited eagerly, and importantly like bright children.
Victor was old.
He didn’t bother with hats, suits
Or patent leather shoes.
He stayed at home and watched the news.
He read a lot,
Settling down comfortably on the Moroccan don
And smoking rare Cuban cigars and Java coffee fumes.
He’d travel thrice a year.
Some place exotic and new.
But quiet, with plenty of solitude.
Victor was old.
Sometimes he missed the tangerine perfume
That once invaded this room.
Victor dreamed sometimes, when he finished reading
The yellowed pages of some old, worn book.
He dreamt of woods and jungles
And a strange red earth…
And a perfume, yes, the most divine perfume,
Of tangerine with a lemon’s twist.
Of olive skin and guitars
And rain in December.
He imagined he heard laughter sometimes…
And mirthful voices that bantered
Like the flames in his hearth.
And the eyes, of course the eyes –
Dark, stormy, gypsy eyes
That, veiled themselves with thick eyelashes
And an elusive vagueness.
Yes, Victor dreamed sometimes.
Was it this room? Of course it was.
Where a flower, a powerful, powerful flower
Was brought and kept for everyone to see.
Its lavish petals enthralled all,
And its sweet smell intoxicated.
And Victor, nourished the earth
That his prized possession grew on.
Right next to the Japanese paintings
And Russian dolls,
Pushed against a green-apple wall,
The one with the window,
In a most exquisite vase.
The flower lived out its life
And faded...
It never replicated.
And Victor settled for some less exotic daisies.
And as he sits, by the warm fire
Reading a book, leather-bound and kind of dull…
Victor feels a little chill.
Like a breathy whisper -
Of frozen citrus perfume.
And he cannot help it as he chokes,
On some powerful unseen beauty,
And the coffee grows cold
And the glowing cigar-end turns to ashes…
Friday, February 03, 2006
Urban Romance
There’s urban romance. And there’s a train that’s about to leave at 5:17 p.m. Ignoring the damn twilight and damn lovers who’ll not see each other for the next seven months. The damn lovers. The damned lovers.
There’s the jeep ride in the rain. There are hills and surreptitious kisses. There’s a feeling of not knowing. There is a fallen tree and memories. There’s that car and Bobby McGee. There’s a red bandana and untold stories.
There’s a missing girl. There are lost jobs and letters. There are days of inexplicable insanity. There’s that day of finally meeting someone who understands.
There’s a lot of on the road stuff. A lot of guitar, poetry and cigarettes… There are days of reckless abandon and carefree love-making. There are days of experience and loss.
There’s Bob Dylan and then there’s that square country girl. There are days of wishing and hoping. And there are conversations and bonfires galore.
There’s a new city. There is a new song. There are different things to see, and STD phone-calls to be made to anxious parents. Photographs there are many.
There’s a distant land. It sometimes surprises pleasantly, sometimes disappoints. It tells us the true meaning of homesickness.
There’s a date that lurks near. There is a station platform and a-come –on –in -just –this-once goodbye.
There’s urban romance. And there is a train that’s about to leave at 5:17 p.m.
Friday, January 27, 2006
I hate pop-ups and smartasses. But that didn’t stop them from entering my life.
I am fussy about coffee, but I am diseased with politeness. I sit in a bus that’s about to have a heart attack, and I know it’s not for me. And as I wait in the traffic signal, studiously ignoring the little beggar boy, in my plush Mercedes Benz, I know, that’s not for me either.
I have a face that could be from anywhere. I have a voice that is seldom heard. I have hands and feet that could be anybody’s. I have a body, I don’t care much for. I have a cello-taped heart and an indecisive brain. I have a pair of very vague eyes and a smile that’s too easy and meaningless.
I live well enough. I have friends. I have family. I’m not frightfully pretty or frightfully ugly. I’m not morbidly depressed or over the moon happy. I’m your everyday, regular cup of coffee. Or tea. Whatever it is you have.
Come tomorrow, I am going to die. And it’ll be sheer poetry.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Ms. Ol’Wassername, I’m pleased to announce, has kicked the bucked. Gone, deceased, disintegrated, helloing St. Pete, whatever, whatever…dead. And here I am. An extreme. Brand new hands, brand new feet, a face you’d remember, a voice you’d dream of and eyes that would haunt you forever. Ms. Sex on the Beach. Peachy ‘aint she?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Unrequited love is a bitch. That’s what the girl next to me keeps saying, in an accent I don’t quite get. It’s the first time I’ve come to this strange city. And she wails, and bawls, and dead soldiers appear from nowhere and one tells me… “You were never a patriot, never will be”.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Coffee, cruel coffee. Loves to test my patience, still. Cigarettes and magazines scattered everywhere, remind me of a song. A mother, a father and a brother walk around the new apartment looking for this kid. I tell them, she doesn’t live here. And they walk out saying “never mind” and remind me of another song.
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Another day, another job. Another face I remember, another I’d rather not.
------------------------------------------------------------------
He had a trunk like a tree trunk. And he ate six meals a day. He had perfect teeth and a ghastly voice. He just came into my apartment and refused to go. I had to pick up a cricket bat and chase him away. But then again, it could have been a crow.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This British boy (I’m sure about this, he was British, he told me so), sat next to me in a hand-pulled rickshaw. I thought it was strange, because I hate hand-pulled rickshaws and I never share my transportation. He told me, I was becoming crazier by the day. And I told him plainly (because I wasn’t diseased with politeness anymore) that, I am fine. I have a perfect body, perfect feet, perfect hands, haunting eyes and a dreamy voice. I am an extreme. So he just got off, and I endured the terrible ride on my own and could not ask the man to stop. When I reached my destination, I realized I was penniless.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Is it just the Romantics, who keep searching, searching and searching? What is it that they search for? The Holy Grail, Salvation, Love, God, Happiness? How do they write? How do they tell stories? Don’t they ever look at their hands and wonder, “whose are these?”
I am fussy about coffee, but I am diseased with politeness. I sit in a bus that’s about to have a heart attack, and I know it’s not for me. And as I wait in the traffic signal, studiously ignoring the little beggar boy, in my plush Mercedes Benz, I know, that’s not for me either.
I have a face that could be from anywhere. I have a voice that is seldom heard. I have hands and feet that could be anybody’s. I have a body, I don’t care much for. I have a cello-taped heart and an indecisive brain. I have a pair of very vague eyes and a smile that’s too easy and meaningless.
I live well enough. I have friends. I have family. I’m not frightfully pretty or frightfully ugly. I’m not morbidly depressed or over the moon happy. I’m your everyday, regular cup of coffee. Or tea. Whatever it is you have.
Come tomorrow, I am going to die. And it’ll be sheer poetry.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Ms. Ol’Wassername, I’m pleased to announce, has kicked the bucked. Gone, deceased, disintegrated, helloing St. Pete, whatever, whatever…dead. And here I am. An extreme. Brand new hands, brand new feet, a face you’d remember, a voice you’d dream of and eyes that would haunt you forever. Ms. Sex on the Beach. Peachy ‘aint she?
------------------------------------------------------------------
Unrequited love is a bitch. That’s what the girl next to me keeps saying, in an accent I don’t quite get. It’s the first time I’ve come to this strange city. And she wails, and bawls, and dead soldiers appear from nowhere and one tells me… “You were never a patriot, never will be”.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Coffee, cruel coffee. Loves to test my patience, still. Cigarettes and magazines scattered everywhere, remind me of a song. A mother, a father and a brother walk around the new apartment looking for this kid. I tell them, she doesn’t live here. And they walk out saying “never mind” and remind me of another song.
------------------------------------------------------------------
Another day, another job. Another face I remember, another I’d rather not.
------------------------------------------------------------------
He had a trunk like a tree trunk. And he ate six meals a day. He had perfect teeth and a ghastly voice. He just came into my apartment and refused to go. I had to pick up a cricket bat and chase him away. But then again, it could have been a crow.
------------------------------------------------------------------
This British boy (I’m sure about this, he was British, he told me so), sat next to me in a hand-pulled rickshaw. I thought it was strange, because I hate hand-pulled rickshaws and I never share my transportation. He told me, I was becoming crazier by the day. And I told him plainly (because I wasn’t diseased with politeness anymore) that, I am fine. I have a perfect body, perfect feet, perfect hands, haunting eyes and a dreamy voice. I am an extreme. So he just got off, and I endured the terrible ride on my own and could not ask the man to stop. When I reached my destination, I realized I was penniless.
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Is it just the Romantics, who keep searching, searching and searching? What is it that they search for? The Holy Grail, Salvation, Love, God, Happiness? How do they write? How do they tell stories? Don’t they ever look at their hands and wonder, “whose are these?”
Sunday, January 08, 2006
Well you see Elvis died at 42
He could never get over Elvis dying at 42. Then John Lennon got shot and Kurt Cobain shot himself. He could feel the world collapsing around him. 9/11 happened and his sister confirmed that she was a lesbian, at the same time. What does a man do in a moment of crisis like that? He found solace in this girl called Marianne and they got married and divorced all in a span of three years. He was dissatisfied with his job. He liked designing, but not potato chip packets. He was an artist. Or so he liked to believe. He painted every Sunday in front of the big window facing the lake. Not the scenery outside or anything…I mean come on …it would be the same damn thing all the time then…he did that just once. Maybe twice. Once in water colours, and once in charcoal. He just liked the place, that’s all.
She battled with weight all her life. She tried very hard not to be a cliché. She proved everyone wrong by being happy. She got married and had two children. She had many friends. She had a small, but nice house. She liked to hum songs while changing diapers and cooking. Her husband stayed away a lot. Maybe for work, maybe not. But she did not fret. She was not a worrier. She believed everything happened for a reason, and she couldn’t fight destiny. She read poetry in her free time. She worked in a bookshop. But had to quit after the birth of her second son. But she was fine with that. Really.
They met at the park. Battery Park. He was walking his dog. She was out with her children. Yes, they were lonely. What else did you think? All they needed to do was to meet. And like I said, they did.
Well of course, they fell in love. But she didn’t leave her husband, and he still went to work. They both dreamed of leaving their dreary lives behind and search for a new house in Tuscany that faced the sea. But who doesn’t?
They always met at Battery Park. They talked. They dreamed. They watched her children play. He sometimes painted amidst the falling autumn leaves. She admitted that she used to play the piano and had hoped to play professionally someday. But their house was too small for a piano. And she didn’t have the time anyway. He said he wanted to be Elvis. And was. Every Halloween. They laughed often. Sometimes, if they were hungry, they had a little something from somewhere nearby. She wondered if turning vegetarian would help. He was considering asking for a raise.
Her husband did not recognize the slightly bald, short-sighted man who came to his wife’s funeral. He had something to say. He said “Well, you see Elvis died at 42. And I never got over that. She helped me to. Now I wonder who’ll help me get over her”. He missed her a lot. He was a sentimental man. He quit his job, sold his paintings, got a house in Tuscany that faced the sea and shifted into it a grand piano.
She battled with weight all her life. She tried very hard not to be a cliché. She proved everyone wrong by being happy. She got married and had two children. She had many friends. She had a small, but nice house. She liked to hum songs while changing diapers and cooking. Her husband stayed away a lot. Maybe for work, maybe not. But she did not fret. She was not a worrier. She believed everything happened for a reason, and she couldn’t fight destiny. She read poetry in her free time. She worked in a bookshop. But had to quit after the birth of her second son. But she was fine with that. Really.
They met at the park. Battery Park. He was walking his dog. She was out with her children. Yes, they were lonely. What else did you think? All they needed to do was to meet. And like I said, they did.
Well of course, they fell in love. But she didn’t leave her husband, and he still went to work. They both dreamed of leaving their dreary lives behind and search for a new house in Tuscany that faced the sea. But who doesn’t?
They always met at Battery Park. They talked. They dreamed. They watched her children play. He sometimes painted amidst the falling autumn leaves. She admitted that she used to play the piano and had hoped to play professionally someday. But their house was too small for a piano. And she didn’t have the time anyway. He said he wanted to be Elvis. And was. Every Halloween. They laughed often. Sometimes, if they were hungry, they had a little something from somewhere nearby. She wondered if turning vegetarian would help. He was considering asking for a raise.
Her husband did not recognize the slightly bald, short-sighted man who came to his wife’s funeral. He had something to say. He said “Well, you see Elvis died at 42. And I never got over that. She helped me to. Now I wonder who’ll help me get over her”. He missed her a lot. He was a sentimental man. He quit his job, sold his paintings, got a house in Tuscany that faced the sea and shifted into it a grand piano.
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