Strange Messenger

The shore seemed to go on for miles. Forming an incomprehensible arc racing past possible vision and depth. The seagulls banked into it flying out of sight leaving a vague sense of infinite horizons in their wake.

The short trimmed mangroves of the coast a pleasant contrast for the eye as the brown, blue, green and gray melded into one, the mosaic in the evening light readying itself for the coming night. Suddenly something was heard rattling against the rocks sonorous in its cries for attention, it’s sound intrusive in the calm atmosphere, demanding attention.

A seagull flew low over the rocks attempting a closer look and set down over near the THING, something the likes of which he’d never seen, it tapered at one end, bloated at the other and lest his eyes deceive him…it was completely transparent. With a crooked head he tried to recognize this stranger, which he firmly believed to be the first soldier of an alien encroachment on his home.

“Is it a being or a thing?” he thought, “a being”, he decided. It seemed trapped and hurt. Scars searing down its side through a patch of its skin that was different from the rest, colorful, course and detailed, ”it’s a female of some alien species”, thought the seagull.

He tried communicating with her in the most basic of shrieks but failed. Dubbing the CREATURE injured he tried to assist it onto the sand but while approaching closer he saw something inside the CREATURE. It seemed frail and tender. Like a rolled up leaf, it was snugly fit into the female; brown, crisp and untouched by the water.

“So she’s pregnant!”, thought the seagull and apologetically backed off, flying away to fetch his female and to spread this message of joy.

A Message

Something creaked. She hoped it was the door, her bones knew better. The wind rushed in as she squinted at her unexpected visitor.

“Mrs. Ghosh?” the silhouette said unintelligibly with a blood red “paan” filled mouth.

Receiving a gentle nod of affirmation the ‘postman’ thrust a letter in her hand, jabbing her with a pen to sign for it.

No hello. No goodbye. No acknowledgement.

The door closed without a creak, making her cringe at the realization. The letter felt stiff, worn and battered after its journey, something the old woman couldn’t allow herself to relate with. She flipped it over, bringing it closer to her face, reading the post-mark – “KOLKATA”.

Expectation and hope kicked in – ‘bloody mutinous allies’, she thought. She placed the letter on the table and eased into her chair, momentarily feeling relaxed before being drawn into hope again. She cursed herself and her instinct to nurse such ideas of optimism.

“Hope once released is an impossible force to ensnare,’ she promulgated to no-one, ‘like youth’, she added ‘only far more deceptive’.

She wanted tea.
She needed tea.
It would help her think.

Bobbing the tea bag in the hot water she looked at the letter from across the hall, imagining the usual transcribed invectives in brightly colored flattery that were awaiting her.

Greed. Loss. Contempt.

She didn’t need that.
She didn’t need them.

She sipped her tea and walked determinately to the table and tore the letter in four, feeling a slight sting, pausing, thinking of guilt and finally dropping the pieces in the trash.

As she smugly stirred her tea, a drop of color fell from her fingers into her light brown serenity. She suddenly stumbled to pick up the pieces, putting together her only photograph of her first great grand daughter.

Ancient Iteration 4

For B.J.



just down the street

cross the bend

where the oval breaks

and broken men sit

where the aromas of morning

seep into the day,

across its coco-nutty shade

down deeper and deeper still

and thru the Eros' atrium

lies a crossing green and blue

and further still

down that very path

a french bistro

not so, but some still may think

a ripple runs thru

of barbed wire and congealed blood

chained linked

an abandonment of human soul

they direct others, not me

and through the labyrinth

of deceptive order

of books,

and wine,

and blood,

the tears of the intellect

asunder on the beach

washed in waves of apathy

arise! arise!

rage! rage!

see it swept in the tide

yes! this is the place

hope comes to die.

On Best Friends...

People walk around today calling everyone their best friend. The term doesn't have any real meaning anymore. Mere acquaintances are lavished with hugs and kisses upon a second or at most third meeting. Birthday cards get passed around offices so everybody can scribble a snippet of sentimentality for a colleague they've barely met. And everyone just loves everyone. As a result, when you tell somebody you love them today, it isn't much heard. I love you. You are my best friend.

I can't imagine going through life without you as my best friend.

- Alan Shore to Denny Crane, On Best Friends
Season 3 Episode 9, 26-27:20 (minutes)

Find someone. Say it.

Two Words...

An Excercise in Brevity -

Darker echoes,
Satiated sounds.

Barring freedom,
All abound.

No exchanging,
Intangible cost.

Giving hope,
Forever lost.

Free association,
Novel trend.

Empty conscious,
Only friend.

Asking questions,
Willingly deaf.

Answers cruel,
Belief cleft.

Lacking conclusion,
Losing faith.

Asking forgiveness,
Pity, grace.

Passing time,
Forget dismay.

Just words,
Two today.

Ancient Iteration 3

For A.A.


And you will scream,
Wailing in the dark nights.
With an eccentric vigour.

You will scream,
For the justice you knew,
Lies dead and decayed.
Time will bear witness,
Blind and ignorant,
Turned by whims,
Of wealth and deceit.

And you will scream,
To the endless nights,
Of sheer agony and pain.
In the knowledge,
That you know nothing.

And you will scream,
For colours to evade you.
The blood and filth,
Will permeate your existence,
Your pallor will speak,
Of your faces reflection.

And you will scream,
For nothing worth speaking,
Was ever gently said,
And nothing worth saying,
Was quietly heard.

And you will scream,
For the deaf ears of children,
Can yet still be broken in,
And the eye of the blind,
Be unveiled from their fear.

And you will scream,
For change is not coming,
And apathy is inscribed,
In every path of life.
Every player is a cheat,
And every cheat a player.
The teacher ignorant,
To their students passion dead.

And you will scream,
For you know all this,
And yet you will scream,
And do nothing.

College Zombies vs. Garden Pests : The Definitive Metaphor

The parasitic wasp Glyptaplanteles is known to lay about a hundred eggs in young geometrid caterpillars. The hypnotic dance of submission plays out on fields everywhere where this species is found. The purpose? To simply pass on its genes, to propagate, to protect and to perpetuate the genetic legacy of its paleontological existence. But it is not the act itself that fascinates but what happens after, that is going to truly shock your mind.

.
The gestation process simply finds the larvae semi-developed inside the caterpillar gnawing its way out as it matures. Not too rapidly, oh no, but in precise, delectable chunks of cold evolutionary motive. First, feasting on the internal bodily fluids, then the secondary organs and finally the piece de resistance moment of an Alienesque outburst, when the larvae eat their way out of the skin and attach themselves to a leaf or tree, cozily settling themselves into a cocoonish nap, awaiting the next phase of the developmental cycle.
.

It’s almost poetic.
.

Now, things get a lot more interesting. The tortured, ravaged and hollowed caterpillar, instead of moving on, like any decent one night stand after the fun is over, “choose” to further their relationship and stands guard over the cocoons, literally thrashing its head at any potential predators that might even come close to harming the cocoons. Yes, that’s right ladies and gentlemen, two for the price of one, not only do you get free food but free bodyguards, all in the price of a single sting.

.
What should interest us here is not the gore (as beautiful as it maybe), or the simple elegance of the evolutionary imperative but the manipulative brilliance of genes and nature in general. Not only is the caterpillar an unwilling parasitic host but during the gestation period also becomes a close and personal confidante of the wasp larvae. A sort of insectoid Stockholm Syndrome, if you will, a emotionally, psychologically binding relationship between the caterpillar and the larvae, except the larvae don’t actually reciprocate.
.

This zombie like behavior has left scientist and loafing college writers completely vexed for the longest time. But I think I can see the pattern, can you? Take a moment, recall for me, if you please, the first day in your college, the first really “good” lecture or the first really “good” hang out with friends…that was the sting. After that the idea was just planted in our minds, we are proud “(enter college name here)-ites”, our college is better than other colleges, we have better teachers, we have higher marks and so on. As much as we hate to admit it, by the time we cross the first year, we’re virtual zombie defenders of our reigning administration, incorruptible icons of our college spirit, yeah, and the caterpillars were just amicable hosts, right?
.

It’s not that the caterpillars are drugged or even that they have the necessary psychological development to make rational role reversals (As if! Have you seen the colors they wear! So ‘80s!) but more to do with the simple human principal that – “if you can’t beat it, join it” or in this case “protect it” after all it’s a very motherly thing to do. Like singing lullabies.

.

Easy eh? Not so. But you’ll take these words and accept them too. It’s in your programming - genetic, social and self-imposed. We do what we have to too survive, the wasp stings, the caterpillar sings and we college students just go ring-a-ding-a-ding at the opportunity to praise our college. The weird thing is we don’t even care to really find out why we’re doing it and neither does the caterpillar ever find out why it’s thrashing its head about.
.

The point is - Snap out of it! Take control and confront. Criticize and critique. Question and compel answers to come. Otherwise I’m sure you’d be interested to know, that as soon as the wasps fly out of the cocoon, something odd happens, the caterpillars just drop dead.
.

Do the smart thing. Quit zombying around and take control. I’d have used the sheep metaphor but nature gives us so much, I just couldn’t say no to parasitic wasps and zombie caterpillars. I guess that’s in my programming.

Never Turn Back, Ever…

Ever played sea chicken? It’s simple. And healthy, I’m told. But I never thought of it that way.

.
The idea is to swim to the horizon. I told you it was simple. The idea is to pit yourself against anyone and everyone. The idea is not if but when it is the other person will give up or then again it could just be you.
.

We use to play it every day, my best friend and I. To swim to the horizon knowing, that either one of us was going to give up. And for the longest time we tried beating each other not knowing that we were not competing against one another. Knowing only that each stroke towards the horizon was one we will have to make back. Knowing that there is only so much strength that spite and juvenile tendencies can compel us to muster; but all the while not caring, because ‘not losing’ has always been so much more important than ‘winning’.
.

That was a long time ago. Now I’ve grown up. Or at least I’d like to think so. I’ve realized that sweat and sea water taste different and that the red seaweed is just so because my nose has been bleeding for the last 10 minutes. There is no sand tumbling up in my nostrils, no acrid stench of the open swear, only the damp perspiration engulfing me as I walk through the corridors of my college. Still seemingly unaware that I’m still swimming, still playing, still losing, at sea chicken.
.

It starts the same. The dare, the challenge, the project or the assignment; the lectures on being better, stronger and faster than everyone else, ironically made to everyone, knowing that there can only be one winner and so many losers. I think we’re all losers at the end of the day.
.

In the course of anyone’s college years the compulsion to seek out the best and beat them is alluring to the brightest and most ambitious of the lot but the motivation of the average has always been to retain their standing as those who don’t really buy into the “rat-race”, those who feel above it all, it’s a good strategy – “I don’t care if I lose because I don’t care to play”, very non-conformist, the irony again being that its probably become the largest group.
.

We sweat alongside in claustrophobic libraries eyeing the competition, muttering… “I can’t lose to him!” The frantic pencils like wavy sea lines beckoning retribution to an uncommitted offence, just the thought that there are so many of them and only so much in us. The rules haven’t changed and we’re all still playing along.
.

I didn’t like that feeling. So I changed the rules.
.

Chicken is no longer about who comes first or last. Who blinks and swerves, blindingly crashes off his egalitarian perched high-horse on to humble mother earth, chocking up spew to avoid bitter tears. No it’s not like that anymore. I play to win and I play against the biggest. I play, against me.
.

The purpose of the game shouldn’t ever be construed as the beating of the opponent but the actualization of self. Every stroke made out to sea is one you will have to make back, that is the burden. But where will we go to? What’s so great out there that you wish to break your back getting there? And if it’s really so great, why think about coming back?
.

You fight, not your friend, brother or stranger but yourself. The limitations nature and your mind have drawn for you in your head. The idea is to win. Not against anyone else but yourself.
.

“Got 70/100, I will do better.”
.

“Only made to the top half of the class, I will do better.”
.

“Didn’t make the internship, I will do better.”
.

“Can’t paint like Van Gogh…hell! Even I’ve got limitations, guess I’ll just paint for fun.”
.

So in the end everybody wins and nobody cares. And that’s just the way I like it.
.

Wouldn’t you?

.

I just remember, to swim hard whenever I play, but play for keeps and I don’t save anything for the journey back. What’s worth coming back to?

Relics...

Memories have a way of creeping up on you, over whelming you with a cruel striking pain. As you get older and older, every thought of happiness and joy takes you only into the past. That is my human condition, the curse, the infinite emptiness of consciousness, not realizing that "what is" matters far more than "what was", whatever it maybe. I know, but I still wonder.I hold these relics in my hand, reminders of a time when, after looking at the world now, feels like a mirage in the desert of my barren broken dreams. I wipe the dust from these photographs; my pets wink at me playfully as they once did. I mutter a tune I used to sing as a child, forgetting words and key...

.

"The playful pair,

Dog and cat,

Brothers in arms,

A war against calm."

.

My comrades, for most of my life, riding with me into battle and at times on me, if they could help it. Sometimes on the cold winter nights I still feel them snuggling next to my feet like they did years ago. My good luck charms, following me through out my misadventures- puberty, adolescent and employment. Melding slowly into the background of my hectic life, as the years went by. Now they lie, resting and waiting, their ashes in a small wooden box, for me to join them and again ride into battle. I still remember them, and when I'm gone they will be forgotten, as will I.

.

I pass the photographs into a folder, a crispy shadow of a note flutters out, a margin scribble on an ancient paper I once wrote, crumpled, experienced, bearing a message of surprise. The words, "I'm pregnant" subtly written between the lines. My sudden surprise, my suppressed yet elated joy as I paused in the middle of my conference while presenting in front of 300 people…the champagne bill that followed. My girlfriend’s message of love. Our unity’s declaration...ahh I should've married her when I had the chance, regrets...”that’s life” I tell myself. That’s life. The longing is strong, the paper reeks of that perfume I hated, I could do with another sniff, I sniff again, yes, its still there.
.

I set aside the fragrant memories for a second as my eyes catch a withered old diary. A memoir of youthful righteousness and guilt that I dragged along with me through my formidable unemployed years, taking notes of all the people who'd helped me, in my naïve belief that someday I would repay them all. Over the years the pages proving just as incompetent as me in doing their job, incapable of containing the ever-increasing thanks I owed to the world, each due payment surpassing the life of the person to whom it was owed, a debt into the next world, or life, or darkness, as it maybe; I still carry it proudly.
.

I look around me once more, my life has gathered at my feet, the books, the papers, the photos, the music, and the infinite accumulations of a life’s attempt at living. A rejection to time and its efforts, well...maybe a well fought failure. At this point both of us old and weary. I think to gather these memories once more, to another world, another place, another room, somewhere I haven’t been. Life isn’t over, but there isn’t enough left for me to keep the artifacts of the old ones around, as I approach the end I have no use of those memories, of things forgotten long ago.
.

Or should I try to remember it all again? I don’t know, I fear I may lose this grasp of the intermitted happiness I enjoy in my memory and I see in the shadows of the future, everything I once cared for dissipating, evaporating out of my soul into nothingness and me with it.

Of Mansi

Allow me to tell you about Mansi.

She glistens at me as I sit across her in our silent reverie of each other. There is no romance like no romance. It would be poetic otherwise. But she is poetry. Allow me to tell you about her hair. Of which there is none. About her eyes, which droop from a narcotic stupor discounting both our pain. About her ways, of which the most recent include being able to sit up and walk. About her. And what she is and was.

She drags her second consonants across milky stars of tears as she wails into the nights about how her love died and wasn’t born again as me. I laugh. We share and disappear from each other’s sights for a glimmer. It is wet this feeling. I remark on the dexterity of her hands, she replies to the countenance of a slap across my face, bleeding; her hands, not me. I abandoned panic about an hour back. And the IV tugs gently as I sit her down again in a soft corner of my room. She shouldn’t have come. But time is not for regrets.

And she is her once again in the nights. I yearn for her mornings when she will live again outside the painful walls of certainty. I shared those confines once. Now we each sit alone juxtaposing our destinies. Made and unmade, known and unknown, laughed and cried, tear by tear by tear. Some might challenge the status quo, not us.

Perhaps her eyes will shine once more tonight. Her voice, more than a semblance of dragged syllables and drool. Her enchantress will emerge from the ashes of this night. The morning for some a reminder of night; for her merely the way to drag out another day. There is no futility here much against my words. No recognizance of an inevitable so far reaching that the soul shrivels under the burden of realization. No. There is no fear, there is no pain, there is nothing that divides the living from the dead, merely the fact and nothing more.

I pale once again to see here. This is all her. Remaining as she says a ‘shell of herself’,’ a cliché’, I tell her even by my standards. She smiles. I remain unsure. I am here but not here. She knows where she is. Her hair once wrung around her fingers playfully the closure of a determined age. She sees nothing. I see no one else. We remain much into each other’s arms in descent. I breathe in her moistness as alone we compare ourselves, after all who else is there? Questions she says are irrelevant, answers even more so, no sage at her age she wrinkles against my skin murmuring that I take life too seriously. I agree.

There is a dripping in her corner, her tears, my sweat, her blood; my ink on her forehead where I plant my face. I feel her limpness against my lips as she grasps at memories. We agreed never to be ashamed together. That was after our mutual incontinence. The smell remains with me like a pleasant reminder of freedoms disbanded and lost millennia past. ‘It is what we will search for each other with’, she said ‘when we tumble our way into paradise’. I don’t have the heart to tell her of my purgatory. I swipe her head with my sleeve and lift her out.

But to Mansi there is more. There is the morning which she says she so despises. She says. I know her words from her thoughts. Her eyes betray her much as my actions betray me. The morning tea seems years away on both ends. She enjoys the warmth of three cups every morning and watches me drink. A rapturous shine in her eyes treacherously lustful about the act itself. ‘Taste’, she muses, ‘is what separates woman from man, we like to taste…’ I step across the table cold cup in hand, pouring drips across her neck as my tongue savors her sweat and sugar. ‘I agree’, I confirm. Staunchly sitting down as she erupts into laughter. There are moments when life dares to have meaning but as I was once told, our only consolation could possibly be that life’s futility serves some purpose. Although I can’t see it just yet.

Her body slumps into the nightly corner of my form, heavy and wet swaying with a rhythmic tone that reminds me of lullabies I wish I had slept to. I lay her gently across the bed, head in lap as she hums the tune to a Sinatra melody I have come to praise her with. “Someday when I’m feelin' low, and the world is cold, I will feel a glow, just thinking of you and the way you look tonight…” I stroke her arms as the electric current of rest sweeps up against her bare skin shivering in the warm night, my mortality withers under such beauty. I dare not shed a tear in remorse or regret. Promises amongst dead friends reach farther beyond the grave.

Mansi lives the daylight songs in a haze of bright lights and joys. At times I’m one of them she affectionately mentions. I ask her of other things. She can only see one person at a time she says. I know. I know. I know of all persons waiting in line for the audience. I ask her how she feels and she replies with fewer words than I ever could – Alive, she says. Her face crinkles against the dawn incapable of yawns and yearnings but alive with the memory of what they were like. ‘I refuse to be a participant in my destruction’, she screams, mercilessly shattering my ears as we hug in our waking ritual. I wish her parents could be here to see her live.

-

Madness is not a prescribed treatment for death I’m told, but it doesn’t hurt. Our attempts towards reason and meaning, we agree, are symptoms of nothing much else. We will both fade from each other. In days and years. She never wants to be nostalgisised about in pictures and brains. Give and receive no grief. Give and receive no pain. I wonder about the majesty of her life so far. The odd 23 years in this world, a curious 5 in pain and the last turbulent one in acceptance. And now only fractions fill the void of time.

The meager wages of life collected in savings accounts across her limbs and learning find themselves diminishing at a steady current rate. She finds my puns very annoying and weak. Much less of any rhetoric vigor that she finds worthy. ‘You read Archie’s.’, I bluntly reply. Even so, I’m sure she’s right. Do the scribbles of Riverdale pale to Verona or Reggie fail match against Iago? I’m distracted by a cupcake being flung at my face. I guess that’s for the Archie remark. If this isn’t a weak irony over humble pie, I don’t know what is, but it’s without nuts so the damage is minimal. It’s at least worth the trouble since she agrees to eat the bit off my nose.

Now her body still tepid against my skin. I slip a pillow down under her head and pull another blanket across her. I watch as she shivers and silently convulses grasping for something to hold on to. I shouldn’t. I do. I lay down behind her pulling up another rag over this heated night as the morning dew glimmers across the window sill distant blue in its refractive horizon. I kiss her neck and hold her gently as my lungs follow hers and I can feel her dreaming of better things than IV drips and morphine illusions to cloud this absurd word from her.

I see futility, I see divinity, I see chaos and I see magnificence that even a god could not phantom. I see the inconsequence of life and its insane traps and trappings fall all around me in a cancerous cacophony of insane delirium in a vengeful rage against reason. And then I see an angel, lying next to be, immune from it all forever, very soon.

The Universal

Transcend yourself,
your lines and limitations.
Go. Move on further than you can
ever imagine yourself to conceive.
There is a tie that binds you,
to all that you can’t admit.


The strangers in this crowded room
your brothers of languages you don’t know.
From places you haven’t seen
and skins that cower
under an unseen oppression.

Find yourself
where you have never been.
Take the trip,
fall flat on your face
and see yourself
for whom you really are,
not what.

The crowded room
is where we live.
Sutta upon sutta
grimacing
in the gaining wind
mildly charged
with college memories
and stains and cig burns.

We don’t see them,
our lives outside the details.
Where else can you be?
Perhaps not the best of locations
but there it is.

I find all,
those I have not met
for being who I am.
My wholesale price
of opportunity.

Of chance and providence,
of missed trains
and the planes I took
to places where I wasn't known.
Here I am alone
and unknown.

I find others like me,
unlike me,
finding themselves
in me.

In a midnight cig ash,
I share myself
with who evers,

shivering on the cold nights of oblivion.

Guitar riffs and smoky trips
beyond visible horizons
in hidden alcoves
of accompaniment.
I can see you all,
for what I really am,
nothing more.

The naked feeling – are you ready?
Sweet, supple and virgin.
Perhaps not.

But I will deflower you
with sight and voice.
I will seek you out.

Behind the sun, shines
light you'll not see
with your eyes

blaring in an apologetic tone.

Saying things
I will not care to listen
as I’ve played this game before.

There is something different
in the way we smile
and lie and
play this
life,

across the void of our meager existence.

Blame whoever comes
across your path.
I blame me.

And I am surely redeemed
for all my actions
for punishments
inflicted
out of habit
of addiction and pain,
and pleasure and laughter.

Of the undercutting insults
thrown on my face
by the withering
niceties
of my comrades.

I am the horse
that will be shot
in the dark
of the stable
to free me
from pain.

And then beaten.

Apocryphal Now!
The Irony! The Irony!

[The travelogue will follow shortly, having trouble organising (recognizing) the scribbles across surfaces temporal and temporary.]

Fight the Power

&TOTSE
'Nuf Said...Check it out...It's on The Sacred Path now...

This is...My Choice.

"This might just do nobody any good.

At the end of this discourse a few people may accuse this reporter of fouling his own comfortable nest and your organization may be accused of having given hospitality to heretical and even dangerous ideas. But the elaborate structure of networks, advertising agencies, and sponsors will not be shaken or altered. It is my desire, if not my duty, to try to talk to you journeymen with some candor about what is happening to radio and television. And if what I say is responsible, I alone am responsible for the saying of it. Our history will be what we make of it. And if there are any historians about 50 or 100 years from now and there should be preserved the kinescopes of one week of all three networks they will there find recorded in black and white, and in color evidence of decadence, escapism and insulation from the realities of the world in which we live. We are currently wealthy, fat, comfortable, and complacent. We have a built-in allergy to unpleasant or disturbing information. Our mass media reflect this. But unless we get up off our fat surpluses and recognize that television in the main (stream) is being used to distract, delude, amuse, and insulate us, then television and those who finance it, those who look at it and those who work at it may see a totally different picture too late...

I began by saying that our history will be what we make it. If we go on as we are then history will take its revenge,and retribution will not limp in catching up with us. Just once in a while, let us exalt the importance of ideas and information...

To those who say, "People wouldn't look, they wouldn't be interested they're too complacent, indifferent and insulated" I can only reply: There is, in one reporter's opinion considerable evidence against that contention. But even if they are right, what have they got to lose? Because if they are right and this instrument is good for nothing but to entertain, amuse and insulate then the tube is flickering now and we will soon see that the whole struggle is lost. This instrument can teach. It can illuminate and it can even inspire. But it can do so only to the extent that humans are determined to use it towards those ends. Otherwise, it is merely wiresand lights in a box.

Good night, and good luck.

- Edward R. Murrow

October 25th 1958

At the Radio-Television News Directors' Association and Foundation Honorary Award Ceremony

--------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the few inspirations for pursuing journalism.

(Will begin retro-posting about my travels and other writings soon.)

Joy

Little joys of life...ahh..okie, not so little.

Traveler’s Guide into Oblivion

"Visions of Johanna"

:

The night creeps up gently as I arise. The smatterings of incessant chatter finally ebbing away with the crowded consciousness, no remnants of rest remain. The day an oblong attempt at securing peace and tranquility to a much desiring lower oblongata. The pounding in the back of the head no lesser than it had been 12 hours ago. A mere moment has passed and the only thing that has changed is the color of the sky.

One should feel deserving of rest at times; perhaps it is only then that it comes. Such is not a treat for the wicked at heart. At times a smothering sadness protrudes to justly verify that fact with ever sharper shrills of distant echoes in the deeper recesses of the mind, taunting away at the remaining fragile morbid hope that sustains me. But attempts at perseverance guided by that which matters most somehow salvage me from a depressive state. After all, I’m on holiday.

All the while my vertically challenged self finds itself disassociated from its surroundings. A moment to recollect exactly where I am in this jittering bit of existence. A train, a journey, these stealthy mosquitoes a mere distraction from whatever lies deeper inside. Taking a look around I see heaving chests and whistling nostrils in the dimmer shadows of the train compartment, achieving a curious super-simultaneity in their combined rhythm, perhaps the very life of this train – how very trite.

Plunging into my stores of sanity and modestly I lift myself down from my coveted upper berth in a desperate attempt to seek out the loo. I slip, I grab and splat! My foot finds a day’s remains on the bogey floor; I dare not envision my lower epidermis’s state. Ubiquitously spread around are the various wares of pedestrian attire, a Bata, a Nike (fake), a Kolhapuri…ah there it is…I slip into it cautiously ready for a wet or wriggling surprise. One never can be too careful.

Slipping past the curiously dry gangway I open the loo door ready for a blast of India’s largest mobile manure factory’s finest remnants…the smell of a billion bowel movements fermented to a French chef’s cheese orgasm. But alas, I smell nothing. Concerned I follow the routine exercise to verify I still have all my senses about me. Looking (head still) to the left, right, up and down. Touch my finger to my nose from extended hands. Count back from ten, all the while breathing deeply…ughhh…there it is, my nasal block…merely phlegm protecting me from my fellow man’s finest contributions.

-------

And we’re done, possessions left behind and what apparently was a wicked combination of banana and cake surgically wiped off my feet with repetitive scrubs. I walk down to the wrong side of the loo entrance, and for some reason find myself in the next bogey wondering why someone is in my berth. I refrain, I wonder and it comes to me. Quietly I turn and wander back. These sorts of occurrences having become only to common and natural in the recent pass; absent memories, incoherent thoughts and the occurrences of completely unexplainable action but one gets use to these things even if the mind doesn’t. I figure things could be worse, I could be lonely.

A sneaking feeling comes across my heart reminding me there is something I need to do in situations such as these, but nothing comes, I move on. The gangway swaying side to side like a violent cradle does little to calm my anxieties. I heave away with the locomotive flow and laboriously force open the bogey door. A sweltering slap of heavy humid wind hits my face and for a moment takes the air straight out of my lungs – atmospheric backlash. I slide down against the door finding the footrest below the entrance and slowly breathe out, allowing fresh air to seep in a gradual more tame fashion. It’s cool and heavy, wiping away misplaced beads of sweat from my brow. I gaze into the darkness outside, wondering if there is something I should be appreciating.

It takes a moment but the horizon comes into focus. A vast night prairie stretches out before me at an amazing pace, unequalled under the shining sun. I absent mindedly reach out with my arms and hesitate out of some evolutionary initiative. I know the next step would have been to walk out. I don’t know how I can ever explain that one. But there it is, the vast darkness of our country, intermitted night lights of meager existence, flickering their way as a vague proof of life, too faded to attract attention yet bright enough to cause occasional curiosity. I look above to center my vision and am enamored by a celestial treat long since unexpected. Power-lines and grassy fields juxtaposed to their horizontal singularity of bright night sky glowing at its starry edges. The rapidly flowing images next to me call out for accompaniment and I’m nearly tempted to join them. After all they are as lonely as me I suppose.

I can think of only certain persistent companions now, those six that reside within me, much against my will I might add. I would gladly settle for the six that reside outside. But that isn’t a choice for me to make. I can recall certain memories of this beautiful night from some other crevice of my mind. A near about de ja vu of scenery and sounds. Here comes the rattle…yes…now the snowball shrubs…yes…and the gentle tapping on my shoulder…nothing…I guess memories can only predict the future only so far. As I pick myself up to get back I tell myself to try and remember that.

------------
The pounding is back, and the night doesn’t look so inviting anymore. The day’s recollection, a violating intruder onto my better consciousness; the blistering screams of grown men arguing orange prices, the blaring vendors pawing their wares and the once lovely children emptying their lungs on the verge of asphyxiating climax, I’m but stuck in a gross horrific half-sleep awaiting the completion of Stage 1 R.E.M to set in so I can finally be free from this cacophonic realm. But no dice. I wait, quietly negotiating the inner pain with the outer one, praying for someone to piss me off so I can decapitate ‘em and spit in their neck…very medieval. So cest la vie, no dice once again, and I lay there for hours quietly praying for a terrorist strike to put us all out of our misery.

After a while I remember the familiar feeling of complete and utter exhaustion seeping in as the sun reached towards the lower horizon, this pained tired shell slithering into a pulpy mass and stretching itself into a cocoon of preservative slumber, there is no rest here, only sanity. And then there was a break and so here I rose once again, succumbing to evolutionary needs of modesty more than anything else.

I wonder about how to get out of this state of mind and into sleep. I can only come back to that haunting thought of loneliness. Why rest? What for? For whom? “One should feel deserving of rest at times; perhaps it is only then that it comes.” Crap! I deserve this, I just can’t think of why. Back on the top berth the realization sinks deeper – I am alone. Well not in the literal sense of course, but isn’t the feeling of loneliness beyond rationale enough? I give myself a sudden slap in the face (a real one) just as a virtual voice whispers into my inner ear some badly needed words.

“Good night, my own bachha…you I will take care of.”

After that a smile stretches across my face, and the night wanders past in a lullab

Elegy of Two Paper Plane Pilots

On the night or morning (call it as you will) of the 26th of March, 2-3 a.m. an incident occured. I will not go so far as to call it an accident. The life of one boy ended and the lives of numerous more remained, irrevocable altered for all time to come.

In a fast car rash stoppage, not meant to be, the lights were turned out for a friend's friend. I did not really know him. His name was...it doesn't matter to me what his name was. I couldn't spell it even if I wanted to. But a life ended, and that is important.

No one can claim to say that he is in a better place now (for it may not exist), or that it was just his time (who has the right to judge?), but I can say that it is done, and no amount of remorse, guilt or grief will alter that fact. Death does not take a curtain call.

So let us not look inward.

So let us not take time.

So let us not heal.

Let us be.

He had a few good friends. They knew him. I just happen to know them.

One of our mutual friends shared a happier part of his life with him and for that I have reason to be grateful to him. The elegy below, is written by that friend of mine, dedicated on behalf of another of their mutual friends. The insanity of the attempt to elucidate anothers thought is as insane as the act of bereavement itself, so for those purposes it shall do.

Written by : Noah

On behalf of Rajs to the memory of Babloo

---------------------------------------------------

Elegy of Two Paper Plane Pilots

we were 2 eagles with gigantic wingspans
looking down at black clouds

thinking they looked like great domes

too lazy to fly,

we were just gliding our way home

we were 2 drunks on the k-block terrace

looking up at black clouds

mouths open

wondering if the've come from paris

2 kids playing football

2 friends in a swimming pool

always cracking stoopid jokes

sometimes cracking good ones too

(hehehahahuhu)

we were two 20 year olds

getting high for the first time

2 fools crashing scooters,

and giggling like monsters

at 3's and 4's past midnights

and playing roadrash

to find answers to life

in that world,

where we walked back from school together,

where i broke beautiful ashnara hearts

and taught them to come back to life

and jet airways sucked

and you made sups work half-time,

there was only

babloo avenue

and rajstruck airlines.

and most of all

(and through it all),

we were 2 idiots

flying over white clouds

over little floridas n romes

in paper planes

that we had made at home.

Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror

Today I went to Major Matt's to remaster my old album
And on the L train in the morning,
I was pretty sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to walk among the Williamsburgers of his kingdom
And like the burghers of Calais will a sacrifice be demanded?
To offer up our dreams and beg for mercy empty-handed?
And hapless in our hipness crowded 5 to an appartment
Relegate our dreams to hobbies and deny our disappointment
Cause The Stones in '65 want total satisfaction, kid
But The Stones in '69 see grace in just getting what you need
But if that's a victory then I'd hate to see what I'd look like defeated
Cause I know there are those among us who seem to get their dreams unimpeded
Today I went to Major Matt's to remaster my old album
And on the L train in the morning, i was really sure i saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to walk among the Williamsburgers of his kingdom
And you might say now there's a guy who seems to have their world laid out before him
Or you might say, he's just a rich kid or a fascist or a charlatan
But either way you say it if you look at indie-rock culture you really can't ignore him
And even if at first dismissive, after some listens you'll enjoy him I was thinking this on the L train, intend on bursting my own bubble
How long should an artist struggle before it isn't worth the hassle?
And admit we aren't fit to be the one inside the castle
This quest for greatness or, at least hipness, just a scam
And too much trouble but then what makes on human being worthy of an easy ride
Born to be a natural artist you love or hate but can't deny
While us minions in our millions tumble into history's chasm
We might have a couple of laughs but we're still wastes of protoplasm
Today I was gonna waste some time and money to remaster some dumb old album
And on the L train in the morning, i was really sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same big sunglasses he had on stage at the Bowery Ballroom
Had he come to see the strife here in the gutters of his kingdom?
Where us noble starving artists are striving to feed our ego
Our mothers like our music our our friends come to our shows
And if our friends become successful, we'll consider them our foes
Go home to our 4 roomates after payin' big bucks for rockstars shows
What a nightmare! what a horror! i don't want no part of this
Get me off this crazy ride, I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna piss!
I'd rather kill myself, I'd rather just relax or not exist
But you say you wanna do an e-mail interview?
Oh what the heck, I can't resist!
"Hey, 'ma, guess what today, I did another magazine interview!
Honey, that's great, you're really famous!!" Yeah and I'm 27 too!
I kinda thought I was gonna grow up to do stuff that would benefit humanity
But it's getting harder to tell if this artist's life is even benefitting me
Cause I was gonna waste some time and money today to remaster some dumb old album
And on the L train in the morning, I was totally sure I saw Will Oldham,
He was wearin' the same big sunglasses he had on stage at the bowery ballroom
And since I was feeling in need of answers I just went right up and asked him,
I said, Will Bonnie Prince, Palace or whatever "What do you think about it?
Is it worth being an artist or an indie-rock star, or are you better off without it?"
Cause I mean maybe the world would be better if we were all just uncreative drones,
No dead child, hood dreams to haunt us, a decent job, a decent home,
And if we have some extra time we could do real things to promote peace,
Become scientists or history teachers or un-corrupt police at least,
"Come on Will, you gotta tell me!!"
I grabbed and shook him by the arm,
The L train was leaning Bedford with 10,000 white 20 somethings crowed on
He opened his mouth to speak but it was lost in the rumbling of the wheels
We were thrown together in a corner and I yelled
"Tell me, man, for real!"
You're living comfortably, I assume, even if you're not quite a household name
You've reached a pretty high level of success & critical acclaim
The L train got to first avenue and a bunch of people piled out I was starring into his sunglasses and I was really freakin' out i was like,
Steamboat Willie Bonnie Prince of all this shit, you're like the king of a certain genre
But even you must want to quit like if you hear a record by Bob Dylan or
Neil Young or whatever
You must start thinkin' "People like me, but i won't be that good ever"
And I'm sure the thing is probably Dylan himself too stayed up some nights
Wishing he was as good as Ginsberg or Camus
And he was like
"Dude, I'm such a faker, I'm just a clown who entertains and these fools who pay for my crap, they just have pathetic punny brains and Camus probably wished he was Milton too or whatever, you know what i'm sayin'?!"
So Will, will you be straight with me now that it's just us 2 on this train?
Cause I was gonna spend some time and money today to remaster some dumb old album
And I saw you here on the L train
And I was like "Hey, is that Will Oldham?" he must at least , have some perspective
Cause it's like, living in this town I get so confused & wound up & up tight
And I just don't know up from down
And then we'd reached the last stop and the subway was deserted
There was a long moment of silence and I let go of his shirt
I started to think that maybe I'd made some kind of big mistake
I tried to walk out onto the platform but by then it was too late
His sunglasses seemed to grow darker and still he hadn't even spoke
He just came right up behind me and put his hand around my throat
And threw me down onto the concrete and kicked my face in with his boot
And dragged me down onto the train tracks and tied my hands back with his coat
And I was slipping out of conciousness as he was slipping down my jeans
And he was punching me and humping me and I slipped off into a dream
So it might have just been a delusion
But I thought I heard him say something like "Artists are pussies"
Then he climbed back up and ran away
So I lay there in the darkness on the train tracks cold and broken
The hours passed and I thought,
Well... maybe I won't remaster that old album
And then I started thinking maybe it really hadn't been Will Oldham
Even though he did hold my arms and fucked me just like Will sings in "A sucker's evening"
But whether it was him or not I couldn't forget the words he'd spoken "Artists are pussies", like we're wusses or we end up getting fucked
And other kinds of folks are dicks, tall, smart and strong
And born to fuck us up I know,
It sounds really sexist and stupid,
It's a terrible analogy but at that moment on the train tracks,
It made a lot of sense to me maybe it's just some kind of natural balance,
Like 2 types of mental gender that's gone on in all societies,
In one form or another like some dicks were born to conquer,
I probably would if I could but if i'm just a pussy, that's okay
Cause in a few months maybe, I'll put out something good.

Why I Do What I Do...

Pretending In Love...

Is it a wonder that we seek love? Is it a wonder that we scorn when we are rejected? Sociologists and psychologist will tell you the answer those questions in a heartbeat, but a heartbeat can tell you so much more. What is it that drives the human heart to seek partnership - Chemicals? Hormones? Electrical surges in the brain? Or are they just the by product of the energy that defines humanities deepest crevices and explodes within them, to make us all that we hate and crave, all that ravages us from the inside?

These questions rarely, if ever, make it into the mind of the common human, for so lost are they in their daily insecurity and routine that even a shred of hope would tear them apart, and that is what love actually offers - Hope.

A chance at something better, a chance at a time of sharing and comfort, the warmth of a human being loving you for no reason other then you. And you, knowing that to be true, a cliche, perhaps but something one can't live without, hope, love, the wonder of the romance, it pulsates within the consciousness of every man, woman and child, for love, for care, for the knowledge that someone will be there.

So its not a surprise that weather knowingly or unknowingly, it is we all, the ones with too much time on our hands, with not enough worry of significant magnitude left to unravel the innermost yearnings of the human consciousness. Perhaps a task too great for one person, perhaps too foolish, but in it and through it all, all that one person can hope for, ask for, is a companion, someone to laugh with, fight with and struggle with, to find out who they themselves are and in doing so find out who the other person is.

Its the wonder of the first word read in a book, the magic of the unheard song and the touch of a loved one, it transcends all that tells us what is right and wrong, what is acceptable and taboo, what is feeling and cold. Sp as we set on forth to discover our capacity of love and its inherent possibility to exist, we may have to find ourselves still in turmoil over where we stand on its existence, but till then i say to you friend, try pretending to be in love, and then think would it be possible to live a life out of it?

Mind and the Madness

These are only screams only we can hear;
Voices of a hundred tormented verses.
Weather changes, tempest do rage,
Vast civilizations madden in our minds.
Their insanity bleeds in abundance,
Overflows our vessels edge,
Drenching pages with inchoate voices.
We claim holy nexus between us,
Entangled frequencies of our silence;
Strum on a fret like white noise.
We shudder within their resonance,
At night beneath shuttered eyelids.
In the second darkness’ dawn,
We encounter visitations of muted images.
Synapse by synapse they flash out,
Our union’s ritual begun.

-PnP, 14th September 2007