Coffee beans and Red wine

Yesterday, was a memory. A fuzzy, tick tick tick tea,-coffee bean- bread,-coffee bean- laughter,-coffee bean- walk,-coffee bean-maggi,-coffee bean-wine,-coffee bean-bed,-coffee bean-etc... The bean was there... Three in fact. Initially tickling the tongue and releasing smoky coffee salivation... Later on as the night progressed, i gobbled them,itchy things. I wanted to enjoy sour grape syrup grover wine but somehow every sip goes till the back of the tongue and then heaves a hot splash on the body plate. Body plate- A slate, flat plate that the body becomes when it experiences a liquid splash or a gaseous outburst. I am not so spaced out. Actually it was all in the mind. Almost like a life of its own, if not a body at least drives of its own. With dawn, i again scooped some beans and pushed them in the mouth. The embarassment of looking at one's own pictures and hearing that you respond to physical drives really gets to me. Period. Turn curtain. IT doesn't. Just that why others should consume a piece of so-perceived beautiful art as pleasurable and appreciate it publicly rather than only limit it to foreplay, is worth attention. Maybe, that is how commom normal humans react and respond to martian, babylonian, egyptian godesses. I kiss really well. That whole process reminds me pretty much of worms. Swallowed in the sea. Another victory. I have come to not have possessive icky "you are mine and he is thine" words.

I ate Orange

Last night was a pleasant one. It is like a set point in time. A sand-bar. And once you literally cross the bar in time, you don't feel sleepy. So, i decided to eat an Orange, the fruit of abundance and lust. The skin was thick and so i dug my nails all around. Orange smell sprayed all across. Against the light of the computer, bitter semi-liquid particles were released. Then i thought of June and pineapples as i dug further in. Then, thinking of the green monster in the christmas film, i withdrew my finger. It wreaked orange juice and shreds. I almost felt like the green monster with big black nails as I licked and lynched it. I thought of all assignments, spat seeds at her bum, licked at my lips again thinking of immeasurable possibilities, muzak, linge. Period. I typed "linge" in the computer, silently conspiring for it to be in dictionary. But the moment the cursor moved, it gave me a "hah-you think i won't notice" red line. I love my photos, benign like lamb. I was dreaming of mommy the other day, how she felt so tired carrying her son all around on the scooter with a daughter who was really no help. I wonder where ther father was. The mouth was like a juicer, the orange's thick skin and shreds knotted in my teeth. Suddenly, I grunted at that ostentatious display of contextually modern technology. I can't write on paper, it seems, hah! I was actually so pleased because he can’t write shite without incentive/compulsion. Even then, come out carefully grafted samples of a capitalist mind. All geared towards production and worth. Conservative, paleolithic man. Those rotten wrinkles that so pleasantly come near his eyes, making a perfect argument for the "in pursuit of practical happiness" types, read money, read backing, closing of walls on his face, then the tower within that detects intelligent words around sucks them in, Bluetooth, free sourcing, plagiarizing, that too with some OS which is dysfunctional, instead of minimizing it enlarges all words, then repeats them thrice and more times and drowns all other hopes, thoughts etc in those “ what I think is...” and “actually I believe (content: what people said over a million times)”. Suckling on an orange I felt like a witch. Difficult to wean. A bitter aftertaste. Burp. Burp. The juicer mouth is done with work. Remains sticking to its inside like some lumps stuck in the cement mixer huge machine. The work is done. No show.

The highly common man, short story assignment

The rickshaw runs fast

I was sitting in there and the meter started ticking. It ticked harmlessly upto 14.50 and then whoop! Suddenly the rickshaw started running a kilometer a minute. I am not kidding. It was going at the usual slow speed but the meter went on changing numbers at every 2 metres. I mean how could a distance of 100 metres be covered in a wink of an eye. And then i started to wonder whether it works how i think. In no time it is Rs. 50. And then i stopped thinking of it since it involves complex math but even though it rips my pocket apart i feel quite okay about paying 'em. So i shifted gaze to the rick-backs. They are so wonderfully decorated. I mean they have all sorts of pictures on them and i actually plan to click 'em all and put 'em up here. The banshee bench saga will come later, to whoever may read this and wonder.

Cheap, cheap penny Cheap

June 19, 2008, 12:00 a.m.
How could I be so base, so cheap, and so callous at the thought of wishing someone to be dead? I didn’t mean it. I know that for sure. But still, I spoke as if my personal tripping pebbles which are still etched beautifully in the mind are more important than wishing someone alive. For that particular moment I was what I have always wanted to be, purely spiteful and malicious. I didn’t need a reason to hate or wish for someone to die. But I did. I was reprimanded and I actually felt bitterness, almost the same that those ghastly and beastly characters feel when their vengeance is exposed and mended. Aware of the head’s every action and purposefully taking those stances, postures, throwing glances and giggling away, it’s all in the wanting to be. Fidgety hands, a deep rooted, accepted failure to look at myself as a lovable person, meeting people only to put them either above or below and to talk accordingly, are not me. Yes, I can decide and I am doing so. I am sure there are millions of flaws in me. No, I am not even nearing to debate what a flaw is. All I know is that unconsciously I portray a lot of my own self which I don’t choose to. Maybe it is that which draws them all and keeps them at bay. It again drifts into an acutely meditative tirade but I am all I have. It is so happening! I always wanted to run away and not have anyone keep asking me what was wrong. I achieved it very well today. And that is not what I want anymore. But today I also want a toast and some milk at night, being asked what is happening in my life, some pampering, some wise gaze over me which tells me, “Listen you little thing, this is no shit. Come to me with a dumb face and I am not going to take advantage of your ignorance, your laziness or your fears. Rather I will make it a cakewalk for you.” But it doesn’t happen. No one has willingly heard my rants. But I still do it for others. But then listen! Even I am not going to be the happy mannequin face that takes all your woes and tries to swish a magic wand so that at least you move out of the damage area. If this is goodwill, I mean it, I better get returns.
The worst grief is that the moment I cry, everything appears clenched in a very familiar old muck. It is like the same rotten Burberry biscuit that you bite into on every birthday, just which your taste buds develop a bit more each year, giving you a more wholesome experience of the putrid taste. I am doing way too much and I don’t feel happy about it. My joy needs to come. There will be no didactical pedantic description of how to be happy. Normalcy and the loss will be spoken of later.

Biraha

June 16, 2008, Monday
Biraha, the grief of being separated and away from what perceives as one’s own or the sadness that surrounds when one senses a future loss of a perceived important person in one’s life. Such Biraha surrounds in urgent hours of ten at night. The loss is not painful because it depicts the going away of them but that it indicates emptiness when you suddenly turn a card and become a page that is long turned and yellowed. Helplessness twirls around like small leftovers of a whirlpool. All you can ask is why such persistence. It makes one wonder if they actually realize how important time is and whether they know that in spite of using all cosmic energies they will never be able to return to this point in time, emotion, situation and age as now. I want to run like Whitman, naked and undisguised and gain that ideal, godly stubbornness and loaf around. But attachments make me weak. I, who has never had attachments and have willfully ranted, will persevere to be so, but in a more tranquil and introspective way.

Splitting Headaches

Karma. I am in search of peace. A never ending peace. Peace that denotes joy. At every step I should meet with an astringent that is not as electrified as mine. Not so impatient. Not so bubbling with surface froth. But forgive me before that. I am genuinely washing my cheeks with tears. Eyes see more clearly than ever. The whole night, with the burning oil, I have burnt my own soul. Trust me, for once more. Or, actually don’t. But don’t forget me. It will take time to let loose the insecurities, dreads and fears that surround me with the night when I am alone with my own self. The thought of you makes me look back at blemishes. You are that which I was and I have come a long way. A full circle almost. From disbelief, effacing limits of the conscience, hedonism, pure physical pleasure to partially forced tears to realizing the need for peace in my heart, I have come a long way. It is like a lamb. I hurled it around. Threatened it and locked it up. I stepped in a world of sheer need and want. I grew feeding on your happiness. I myself cannot imagine how I deserted you. I confess it was base of me. That is where began the journey of what I am today. But there is a path that I see. What is gone is irreplaceable. Should I regain faith in Karma, I should only try and be forgiving, understanding and calmer. That is how the maze of sentiments, that drives what one sees upfront, will be visible. Self dignity is lost somewhere. I need to regain it because that is how I will love and respect myself when you are gone. Flames light up, little lamps full of fire, at an ungodly hour as soon as I sit up and agree that nothing divine exists. Embracing agnosticism, uncertainty and the absence of things is scary. Affreux, in French describes it perfectly. How is this heart to be at ease when all around there are gazes and stares looking through the body stripping it off? Also, what seemed quite inscrutable, enigmatic and seductive, now just appears animal. A swamp, a terrifying swamp of buzzing cars and slithering slimy men look to be deliberately grazing your physical space. The space of “I” is so negotiated, so cramped that I shudder at the thought of standing nude in a public square and declaring that I want to erase limits between me and the objects that I use. I read somewhere; darkness is not an entity by itself. It’s a mere counter-entity. It denotes the absence of a characteristic and not the presence of another. It is precisely why we cannot control the amount of darkness, cannot increase or decrease darkness. Cats seem to draw attention and distract me. The mysterious element must be the key. But can’t you look beyond words since I agree that I cannot translate the emotion into sentences aptly? An opportunity is lost. I dare say after an eon, maybe (God) served me right to feel so miserable and cry like a dodo because wisps of ideas are caught in my throat but they fail to transform correctly. Maybe this is the punishment of a writer.