Maverick

Draft Three

2011-10-04T01:51:00.001-07:00

One of these days

Sooner or maybe later

You will watch yourself taking

The lanes that wind up at your door

And you will watch yourself walking upto you

Taking a seat next to yourself

Smiling, hands clasped in silent reception

Like old friends who accidently meet

With time on their side

Indulge with love, with mutual recollections

Listen to your stories and fondly finish the lines

When memory slips

And while the dust settles from her long tired feet

Refill her cup to the brim just on the verge of spill-over

And dismiss protests with laughter and kindness

You have come a long way

Through ignorance, mistrust, breakdown, false hope

Broken love, unmailed letters, mornings and dusks

Nights, strangers,hunger and laughter

Appreciation, coldness, longing

Separation

Death, arrival, relief and paranoia

Emptiness and comfort

Shame and love

Disbelief and indifference

When she comes to you

Keep time in hand

Your one true friend

That never quite left

When others did

Draft Two

2011-09-19T21:56:00.001-07:00

Warmed on your bed by a hundred nightly chills

She grew to recognize the lengths and ends of her body

Through pain, through pang

Through tenderness that came from you

To tenderness that mutely screamed in the quite nights

And every sting was a reminder of your love

Spoils of the war, she lost every time to win

A new scar of your boundless affection

And while she leaves her marks on you

You leave none for onlookers to spy

To inquire, or silently understand

Instead the blows of your love

Seep deeper

Infiltrate

To find shelter under her fevered skin

But every day she seeks and seeks

More and more of this frenzied game

Not allowing you to keep your calm

Not accepting measured moves

Not allowing the dialogue to end

With pleasantries and polite exchange

But if you are reading this

Do not feel moved to take the blame

For she doesn’t wish to smolder

But scrounge your love

For her charred remains.

Draft One

2011-09-19T21:55:00.001-07:00

She will always keep your secrets safe

Slip it under conversations

Deftly with a sleight of hand

Brush it from sight

Talk of moss that grows on her thatched roof

Or the dogs that reach for love in deserted blind alleys

Or the china that broke on her Persian blue rug

If you give her your poems

They will always be gathered with the smile

That she receives the first rains of the year with

Falling slowly, falling fast on her small kitchen garden

And when she stopped at the foot of the tree

Eyes glazed by moonlight and insecurity

For a moment before she decided to sit

And look up at you, at its highest branch

Keeping starboard watch like a sailor at sea

Did you resent her then or did you simply forget?

The silent eyes that placed you in her night of stars

And one day they say, she dissuaded herself

From waking up

Tucked between a hundred weightless dreams

Warmed by your secrets that have finally found

A home behind the closed space of her sleeping eyes

And secrets of her own, you will be surprised to know

That played with yours, quietly along the seams.

Some July Nights.

2010-04-26T06:46:00.000-07:00

The bitter smoke inhaled and held. The shrieks of the train cutting through the song on loop, and the rhythmic motion of wheels on track, an external beat, drowning the words till the language became alien, and only in memory made sense. She stubbed the smoke, bits of fire flew, tossed by the mad wind like fireflies that have caught fire. The sky was overcast, probably a storm promising to rupture the sky, the soil was warm, restless in her wait for satiation. The process of forgetting, of erasure, of making invisible all the signs and sights that connect to it till everything dries into facts. Signification is muted till the pantomime ceases to appeal.
But to begin the end, to understand how its time is done, and no prayers, entreaties to a questionable God, or efforts and strategies can bring back what came free...
She closed her eyes to a rising storm...

2009-11-12T21:26:00.000-08:00

How long can I stay, in the grey autumn lights, shifting through fallen leaves

While birds take their long flight home, casting no shadow on the ground

In harmonious joy, in bleak twilight, they soar, little black dots.

How long can I wait, while the last train winds its way around the bent tracks

Faces pass me by, sad, painted, beautiful, unfocused, all indifferent, all erased

By the slow cold draft encircling the fast deserting stage

How long can I linger, when you hold the pain gently within the steady gaze

That looks beyond me, to open fields where crops trace sinuous patterns in the air

and desert me in my dreams, till you are no longer there.

Sweetest downfall.

2009-11-06T23:37:00.000-08:00

It was a folk lore that the bride went away with the strange dark man from the mountains to see the sun step down and stretched infinitely till it died a pitch dark death. The bride stood, braving the wind, secretly guarding the simple happiness of being with the man with piercing eyes and rustic ways. They stood, her back rested against his arm, carefully casual, watching the landscapes in their hurried retreat. The sun set, the path was lost, the roads now newly learnt led them back to where they had begun. Now that it was time to say good night, he looked as indifferent as he could and she overtly happy to find other company.

2009-10-27T10:07:00.000-07:00

I wake up, deepest night, curled senseless, listless

Fragmented in parts, lying here, tossed there

In halves, between fingers, I gaze, i see, I sense

the rupture of time, across the ramifications of fate

on my palms.

Just another dream congealed into wasteful prudence

Blink, I pray blink, turn me inside out

Paint me pretty, leave me to dry

Just another dream, crying me to sleep...

2009-10-18T09:59:00.000-07:00

The leaves twirl as they fall, falling down in a slow sad dance

Turning its face away from the sky, dying midair, lost, out of reach

And the boughs shiver suturing heaven and earth in a cup of moonlight

And I think of how I am falling, flayed by the winds, and each

Thought bent out of shape and dragged back to the state of unity

Falling, with no prayer for release , till I become one with the night.

2009-10-12T08:33:00.000-07:00

I have reinvented you, bit by bit, taken care to erase the notes

scribbled most carelessly on folded corners, taken time to

remove the binding, to invert our shared memory into a lifeless still.

All our summer evenings spent in reading strange new literature
smoked fashionably

taking time, between long deliberate drags to notice

the rise and fall of the nocturnes, as we progressively forget

our conversations, the noise of our words killing all thought.

2009-09-05T07:15:00.000-07:00

Poetry dries like blood

Between pages, across miles

Pressed between your lips

Like a waif, like a tear lost between

Fingers curled infinitely into a fist.

2009-07-09T21:58:00.000-07:00

"All emotions are pure which gather you and lift you up;

that emotion is impure which seizes only one side of your being and so distorts you."

~ Rainer Maria Rilke.

2009-05-31T22:17:00.000-07:00

I curl myself in a box, pinstriped

Odd bits of old confetti

toes crushed against folded photographs, the first ballerina shoe

Shiny pebbles, a movie script and chocolate wrappers

Christmas bells and torn pages of a diary.

I close my eyes to make a

time capsule, to be buried for years till

Present thoughts become a confused smile, a memory.

I bury me under the Rowan tree, covered by berries and speckled red flowers

The earth growing warmer, I hear

muffled laughs of lovers or maybe little children dappled by sun and shade

I sleep.

Seasons change, the rain mixed with songs of the wind seeps through

I wish to turn, restless in my sleep

I dream of thunderstorms, barbed wires of electricity in the sky

My bones ache for green fields, damp green fields

I wish to turn

Within the closed space of the eye

I see the rain dripping through my twisted fingers

Dissolving me to absolution.

Doused by a thousand tears of a dead god.

I feel not the weight of the berries, the red petals, troubled dreams.

Seasons change, the summer awakens me

Blind, blind fury of a midday sun

I rise, I merge, lost to the elements

Fevered by the heat, I turn

into a rain cloud

I fall

I turn

parched lands into fields of green

My blood in the earth

Fertile.

2009-03-12T12:34:00.000-07:00

You sit, the end of summer by your side
Filling your hands as they fall and rise
Holding my hands in harmony
To rise again for a last reprise...
Go disappear softly up the stairs
Hide behind those shadows long
Bring a souvenir from the hiding place
Or rise with mine for one last song.

Mon Amour..

2008-12-26T20:25:00.000-08:00

Pause a while, beloved city. Wait for me to catch up, catch my breath as the time dissolves like smoke in thin air. You disappear behind alleys, across streets of concrete, between yellow taxis and peeling paints of black on walls. You flicker behind old moldy buildings, patched together with postings, windows painted garish and people trudging towards made-believe destinations. Linger closer on nondescript nights when cold hands seek earthen bhars of cha and drink in the squalor of the metropolis and the repeating hum of life. I have walked with you in muted dreams when the street lights have glowed orange and as I stepped on my shadow, my thoughts formed without effort, without meaning, without shape and the dreamscape grew dimmer as I try to hold you back.

You gave me love, moments unreflected, run-of-the-mill poetry written behind stray pages jealously hidden, bruises hidden behind practised smiles, mindless joys, fear and fever, aimless days when the limitless sky was just a tease. I have seen you ignore me as I walked down, a filler of sorts, jostling against hundreds like me. Seen your love when smiles doodle across my face just because. And mixed in the wasting afternoons, sordid with hooting monotony of everyday life, your derision at my mediocrity...

So pause awhile beloved city, pause till I catch up, catch my breath and you take me in your fold, in your arms with your clamor, and your peace, your moody blues or calico days of reeling splendor...

2008-12-07T05:31:00.000-08:00

I

In another day, another time, another summer, or some other night when the stars hide the nocturnes of the sky. Another me, but this same you. But now turn your back to me and talk about music, poetry or of the thousands of sunsets you stayed up to see. Talk cliched, talk in jangling verses of the happy, talk without another look at me.

II

Bad girl, dirty dirty girl, what did you do. Look at me, lower your eyes, confess the truth, don't open your mouth. Walk the line, curl in your toe, hold out your hand, do what you are told. Speak your mind, think as I say, don't break free, but go away.

2008-11-09T06:00:00.000-08:00

My lonely girl, caught in a storm
Do you hear the winds moan
The sky flashes angry tears tonight
Where do you wander all alone...
I have known your kind, lady lover
Creep out at night like a rambling witch
With ankles deep in moors discover
Cruel ways to beguile, bewitch
I saw you wander in a tawny wood
And sing incantations to the air
A woman, often misunderstood
A little evil, beyond repair
You tear assunder and recombine
Bits of me, beloved witch
Feel my vision by degrees maligned
Lying with you, doing your hitch.

2008-10-23T23:15:00.000-07:00

I miss you
In disconnected strains of conversation
Mixed in road maps, coffee stains and
Hints of smiles behind cupped hands

You could be anywhere now
Pebbled streets, street plays or catching thoughts
Or trading lives or undoing plans
Searching with eyes shut, building with paper cuts
Screeching cars halting inches from death

Where do you wander now
Where do you die
When the tempests break
Upon the face of your sky
when poetry agitates
Or cigarette ends don't light
When you become your words
Written on a nameless night.

2008-05-16T06:04:00.000-07:00

Summer days meant lazed afternoons on smooth cotton sheets, drawn shades, melting ice cubes clinking around a glass of sweet lime and a book from the library. A summer afternoon these days, invariably means working for some really sadistic exams and occasionally fighting the urge to woolgather. But a summer afternoon today means, taking Macadamia's tag up and posting this very special something which I have been wanting to do for a while.

The rules [for the tag] say that you’ve to post five bits of information about you which you have never shared with your blog readers before. No "I plan..." or "I hope..." here - lets look at what has already happened.

1. My all time favorite childhood book is this Raduga publisher's Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling. A few years back the book got misplaced and ever since then I have frantically searched for it everywhere...from the regular book haunts around the city to book stores, college street, Golpark, you name it and chances are that I have been there.

2. Once upon a very long time, my kindergarten teacher had called ma over to break the news to the lady that probably her daughter had some learning disability...specially with English for while the other babies had graduated to T or M or some other letter, little miss Acharya would still not say her A,B,Cs. I don't blame the teacher. I was too busy climbing trees or chasing butterflies and really didn't feel the need to know A,B,C,D.

3. I can be very whimsical. And I absolutely adore dogs [yeah, I am aware that the two statements had no earthly connection. And thats two points under the same point. *smirk*]

4. I once tore my ligament, displaced my knee-cap, suffered some hair-line cracks [all in my left knee] while playing volleyball and shrugged it all off as a slightly more painful sprain. So with a crepe-bandage firmly around the much abused knee, I did nearly everything that I was not supposed to do - like trying to run around and did I mention dancing?
Needless to say my Orthopedic was mortified when I finally went to the medicine man.
[Note aside for the two doctors, the rest can go over to point 5 - I promise, the next time I will turn myself in sooner.]

5. Taking me for granted is one of the fastest ways to lose me.

Thats that. Five things. And I tag anyone ready to play.

For someone with so called learning disabilities [:D], it was really feel-good to get all those comments for Sway, Sway, Sashay. But a certain someone saved the best for last. A musical rendition of my prose, something out of my wildest imagination and totally incredible. He composed, arranged, played the instruments, sang my lines and left me feeling absolutely happy. Here is the audio-

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eSnips Social DNA

2008-05-02T06:52:00.000-07:00

Sway, sway, sashay across the floor, silver microphone in your hands, your raiment of gold. Sway as your silence keeps time with the rising tenor, sway against the veil of blueish smoke. What will you sing tonight...

My darling turns away her face, watch now as my darling turns away her face, flicks ashes and licks her lips of sullen brown. And she says, her hardened hands don't move as she says, what will she sing tonight?

Have you heard there has been blood on the streets tonight? Life here as stable as tomorrow's headline. Life here in the streets of homicide. On the streets of Harlem, I passed bruised bodies slouching against a reddened wall, on the streets of Harlem I passed the girl as she kissed every curve of her lover's darkening smile, on the streets of Harlem I passed all those who adore and abuse...listen the clarinet, when will you rhapsodize the blues...

Collapse...

2008-04-27T08:49:00.000-07:00

Living life on tuna cans, cartoon strips and roadside colors absorbed by monochrome eyes. Twirling hair, vision obstructed by the kinesis of stationary landscapes, vertical lines stretching against the wind. Streamlined thoughts lost in translation and the jangle and pop of your ramshackle grace. Hooting of trains, the shape of your mouth left on half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich and compact discs paperweights on disconnected songs written after last night's telephone conversation. Caught in the middle of stiff pretexts , in the process of coming undone, camera shutters and bare legs throwing shadows while they dance pointlessly on mosaic floors.

Stub your cigs on the wall, make an ugly graffiti with the scorched out shards of nicotine days. Or lie in soft diffused light, lassitude never looked more sensuous and memory's focal distortions shall never find a more beautiful you. And even when the night is lost, I shall love the infant like I loved the man. And I the same maverick who hitchhiked back home in a getaway car.

26

2008-03-31T20:12:00.000-07:00

Have been hibernating for too long. So picked up this tag from Amazing Grey's blog. Some poetaster rhymes for my patient, forbearing fellow-bloggers-

A for anger, and a bit of heaven when we make up

B for banana pancakes, brush strokes across my easel

C for chocolates, dark, sinful, caffeine in a coffee cup

D for daddy and death when pop goes the weasel

E for emotions when expectations ensnare

F for football matches, food, freedom , fiction

G for Gypsy blood, a mind game of solitaire

H for haiku, hide and seek and hazelnut addiction

I for what I am, what I have, what I can't be

J for Jack in the box from days gone by

L for love that leaves you weak in the knee

M for music or marbles in a pocket full of rye

N for NHL and almost losing my best friend

O for occasionally swallowing my pride

P for procrastination and poetry to comprehend

Q for quietly sitting with you, by your side

R for the red herrings and rambling in the wild

S for shoulders to rest on and silly rhyme

T for twinkling stars I wished on as a child

U for uneasy silence, coming undone just in time

V for Violin and the fiddler's symphony

W for waking dreams of you and me

X for two bones under a skull

Y for coming years that don't gaurantee

Z for the zzz..gotta sleep, feeling dull….

And if you wondered where is K

K for keeping you forever and a day...

Not Entitled to Title.

2008-03-10T06:36:00.000-07:00

My days are becoming something like the magpie's fondness for collecting shiny things. Being pulled back from bewildering dreams early in the morning, you finally realize that you don't want to lose yourself to sleep for reality feels better. Shards of sunlight throw patterns on the wall, on my skin, still softly dissolving music and a few moments of stillness before the pace of life quickens again.

Its been quite a while since my last post, hasn't it...and I am growing to be regularly irregular. But between the headlines and cups of coffee, between the hurried scribbles about whats keeping the world on it's toes and psyching myself for the upcoming 20th May exams, I have tried to catch my frisking thoughts but...words don't do my bidding anymore. And dear reader, try as I may, I could never give my mute expressions a voice.

And yesterday, someone turned the hourglass upside down. Going to the book fair, sifting through books I grew up reading, leafing through titles I have been wanting to read, and holding works I never knew I never knew, it felt honestly good. I felt like the six year old again who was bewitched by her first volume of Russian folktales...
Came back home with Tom Holt's Falling Sideways and a coloring book for my baby brother. Its mostly filled with pictures of grisly prehistoric monsters so I think he will be very glad when he gets it. [ by the way, Macademia what are Beyblades? I feel like a square peg in a round hole with kids these days...]

But what I wanted to talk about was going back to my flute. After nearly twelve years, I fell back in love. I thought when I played half remembered half forgotten tunes of long lost years, that it couldn't get better. But with N. Autist around to help me pick up chords[ yes, chords] on the flute and his D harp for company I am glad to say I was wrong.

Its growing dark here already...and the fireflies flash across, a piece of the night bounded by window panes. And the moon arched just like a soft smile on the face of heaven...life is good.

For Pseudo-Intellectuals

2008-02-27T04:45:00.004-08:00

I could never write about silver blades,

Spools of dreams clinging on bloodied spades or

Strange prophesy babbled through obscurity.

I have known

Neither skill nor seen my visions fulfill themselves into

The geometry of the strange, only to arrange

My thoughts into school girl verse.

My pale hands slouch at my desk,

Inscribe the meandering and the grotesque…

some pretty, some perverse.

But my friend, your world is fake,

Feed on Thoreau and Blake,

And your borrowed parasitic lines seek to contemplate

Nothing new, just the metaphysics to construe , the recondite for its own sake.

[Addendum- I am rhyming too much these days. Blank verse is more becoming? What say?]

Breaking the Silence

2008-02-17T22:25:00.000-08:00

'…for you, words are just paper boats in the rising tide. I fret with starry lines, incomplete rimes, and feel cut and dried. Through fevered afternoons with nothing but syllables of silence to bring solace, pieces of you in my secret interstellar space, I have counted the minutes to madness.

Waking unto you in the winter rise, G minor across my tin, I wonder if I should cross my eyes, or should I disappear under your skin..."

2008-01-14T22:20:00.000-08:00

I am not where you seek for me
In shadows of your aging face
In those tripping beats of poesy
In hesitant hands gathering grace
I am not in your deepest thought
In the scars of your deepest sting
In unreflective love, overwrought
But promises may not mean a thing
I am not in the sun that shines
Or stars that glow in the eve
I am not there in your fondest lines
Softly said when you take your leave
I am just here, anywhere
If I could know that those I see
Are not looking blindly through
An illusion I know as me.

Sand and Surf

2008-01-09T21:37:00.000-08:00

Rise tonight like a surge's swell
Fall tonight like waves on the shore
Pause awhile, before you bid farewell
Bid farewell, to return once more

Whisper like the sighing shells
Scream like those breakers at sea
And like the hungry tide turning on
Return again to crash into me

Strange like the ocean's end
Distant like the land of dreams
Watching as ripples blend
On the silent sleepy streams

2008-01-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

From where she was, Em could see her part of the world beneath her feet...dark silhouettes of buildings under a deep reddish black sky. The world seemed to be reduced to just four colors, the rust of the sky, the charcoal of land, the flashing white of the screaming trains and the glistening yellow from a street light. Em took one last lingering bite from the Bournville bar and slid her hands back into the sock puppet she had made years back for warmth. It was 11:15 yet and she could still hear faint traces of laughter wafting from her house. With preoccupied gestures, her fingers twisted the puppet's face and watched it move from tight lipped stare to a toothless grin.

Its just a night like any other for me but for Em, it means midnight culinary experiments, working around the kitchen with stealthy movements, hoping against hope that her handiwork doesn't turn into some great calamity. So when the girl descended down the stairs, careful not to wake anyone, she must have whispered a silent prayer to the saints to watch over the poor unfortunate souls who would be threatened to take what she cooked tonight. And...what? Oh, Em read this last line and emphatically disagrees. She is asking me to let her write this herself. I always mess up facts, she says. Fine, I pass the reed to Em.

" My mind is a little too preoccupied to form prayers tonight. I have to chop ginger, grind chillies, stop myself from tasting the tangy lemon drops, take dollops of curd and turn on some music for the silence is getting too loud. The recipe says 350 grams of gram flour and I say 200 would do to perfection. The recipe says stir one cup curd...with the flour and water. So I take my time to pour in the water little by little into the bowl as the flour and curd dissolve into each other. I twirl the paste with a spoon and lightly pirouette around the kitchen on the beat of a drum. But that splatters the batter on my wrist so I think I ought to sit on that cold slab there and calmly finish mixing.

Turmeric power, ginger-chili and salt to taste go into the thick rich paste. Keeping a weather eye open for any trouble, I take the steamer out. Its got all these appendages that you need to latch in place and baking dishes that you need to grease before you can change the song. Instrumental rock is just an earworm tonight so I let Yann Tiersen create his magic. Bm...D...one tsp of soda bicarb...A...G...one tsp oil...and lemon juice. And now that the concoction is made, recipe tells me to pour it into the greased pan and dream happy dreams till the steaming is done"

2008-01-04T19:51:00.000-08:00

This is a daft post...seems more like a dental care ad, if you know what I mean[ Toothpaste for the tooth pest to avoid losing your teeth when you need them most] But its been rusting in my folder and I did promise last year about this.

postscript- There is a typo in the image but by now I am convinced that it is most human to make one. Besides, I am giving you the chance to forgive and be divine.

Between the Pages.

2008-01-01T07:36:00.000-08:00

Telescopic view into your ever eluding mindscape. You move in and out of focus, frozen in frames, farther than you seem, closer than ever. Would my angry muse talk to me again I shall paint you in colors that don't peter, ink you in words that seep deep within my skin, sculpt you anew with careful hands. But my inspiration speaks not to me…and the aching silence hisses the literature of dystopia.

Build me an applecart of perfect order. Place one unquiet memory over another, one hurt over one heal, one you and one me over the silent inscribed presence of all those who came before and left after, till an intricate pattern frees us of the double bind that binds us.

Turn of the Year...

2007-12-23T20:10:00.000-08:00

From ashes to ashes, from dust to dust, but some things don't blackout from the mind. Specially with the Noel beginning from this day on, a lot comes rushing back and refuses to leave.

So, seasons greetings merry gentlemen and fondest wishes for the lady. Merry Christmas and happy resolution free new year :)

Negotiating With the Dead

2007-12-14T20:09:00.000-08:00

Taking you back in time. Two years, give or take a few months. Fasten the makeshift seat belts for this time machine wasn't designed for more than one. I promise nothing more than a return to the right here right now that you leave ahead and now that it is understood between us...shut the door. We are getting outta here.

Are your ears still ringing after crashing through the years and when I speak do my lips form unintelligent words. Maybe we will understand better now that the protocol of words is stalled and we negotiate through gestures- untaught in the doctrine of kinesics we have nothing to misrepresent, mislead or misconstrue. When I was a child I would peer through coloured glasses- one half of the world would be flushed with bright lemon sunlight and one bathed in lurid chiaroscuro. But don't let me distract you...we didn't come all the way back for coloured glasses...but who knows when blood dries on red glasses or when red roses bleed.

Walk in...don't touch the dusty song sheets slipped under coffee mugs and yes, I know I never finished writing it down and yes I know you could help me with the finale but you can't change a thing here and when we go back it would be gone. Walk over..around the couch...don't worry thats just me trying to get some sleep before another working day tries to enervate.But before I wake up lets wind up the thing we came here for, shall we? Right? Good.

I want you to see this girl I have trapped within raspberry and tulip frames. She is so beautiful, unclouded brows, a smile and not a preset. I had a good mind of throwing her away, but this baby intrigues me and I kept her on the shelve. Somewhere where I could forget that she exists so that years of dust could hide...sorry...I forgot you are still around. Was I talking to myself? I am crazy? Then what are you?

But shh...you will wake me up. Tell me, how does she make self sufficiency seem so simple or love her little world with unconditional love. Like music not yet recalled is made of, which lulls you to sleep, colours your dreams, like an atmospheric flute playing and losing identity with your subdued attempts to hum. Nothing hackneyed...not like it is now.

But, I sound too much like an emo and excuse my sentimentalizing the dead. Its time for us to leave...close the door softly behind.

Syncopation

2007-12-12T05:08:00.000-08:00

To What's In a Name,

This is to notify you that I have rolled the dice in this tagging game you lassoed me with. And before you take up the next few minutes of your life going through my playlist, I would like to mention that your choices are far from being soporific. Anyway, here goes...

Rules:
1. Put your MP3 player/Media player on shuffle
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. You must write the name of the song no matter what.

IF SOMEONE SAYS “IS THIS OKAY?” YOU SAY?
Wicked Game [REM]

WHAT WOULD BEST DESCRIBE YOUR PERSONALITY?
Another Day [Dream Theater]

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
Little Wing[ The Corrs version]

[alrighty this is certified dumb. Little Wing?]

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
Child in Time[ Deep Purple]

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE’S PURPOSE?
Reel Around The Sun [ Riverdance]

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
At My Most Beautiful [REM]

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
Coming Back To Life [ Pink Floyd]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR PARENTS?
It Ain't Me Babe[ Bob Dylan]

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
Electrical Storm[ U2]

[*grin*]

WHAT IS 2+2?

For the Love of God [ Steve Vai]

DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BEST FRIEND?
Wind up [Jethro Tull]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Don't Panic [ Coldplay]

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE STORY?
Bobby Brown Goes Down[ Zappa]

[No, no...*shriek*..*faint*]

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP?
Aaj Jane Ki Zid Na Karo [ Farida Khanum]

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
Jeremy [Pearl Jam]

WHAT DO YOUR PARENTS THINK OF YOU?
Slow Dancing In a Burning Room[ John Mayer]

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
Importance of Being Idle [ Oasis]

WHAT WILL THEY PLAY AT YOUR FUNERAL?
On an Island [David Gilmour]

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
A Weekend with You [ Warren Mendosa]

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
Starry Night [Satch]

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
Ave Maria[ Franz Schubert]

WHAT SHOULD YOU POST THIS AS?
Scarecrow [Pink Floyd]

Yours faithfully, Antigone

Just a Thought.

2007-12-10T06:36:00.000-08:00

Now if the ladies and gentlemen present promise not to raise their objections, I would like to ask you...where had you been all my life? Hey there, look at me...and some one please turn the radio off...I can hardly hear a word...or is it just static between us?
You were expected before...or did my invitation reach you too little, too late?

You see, I mistook a few for you. They walked in, walked about,walked all over..but now that I see you unwinding in my parlor, I know I had been entertaining ghosts in your name. They looked like you till I saw them silently facing the sunset- the lines of your face burn with life in the dying light. They sounded just like you, till I heard them whisper promises- you don't promise me...you promise to yourself. They felt like you too, till they held my hand- they hold on to hold me back and you hold on to take me places I have never dreamt of.

Is it a sojourn or are you here to stay? Oh,a sojourn...fine...I think we can have our breakfast now. You don't mind honey in tea, do you...and someone turn the volume up...they are playing one of my favorite songs.

2007-12-08T11:28:00.000-08:00

Its quarter past one...and its one of those days when its just me and a screen absorbing my erratic thoughts. When inspiration dwindles,caffeine induced bad poetry or stilted prose forged using impersonal third person voices is all I can manage. Although it becomes a matter of clinical curiosity to observe that after furiously typing down emotions hidden behind the bulwark of words, or typing down winding lines that curl into an insignificant dot or oblique allusions carefully generalized, I think- But this is not what I meant at all. This is not it at all.

Then what devil is it that makes me write? Your guess would be as good as mine but when the hideous chorus rises in my head, I haven't been taught a better way to cope or delude. With a little help from my necessary evil of course.
I am learning that when you clench too tightly, it begins to hurt. And I am also learning that if you clench sand too tightly, it slips between your fingers and...then that hurts.
I am trying to learn that my whimsical demands for closures need a tourniquet I can not undo later. And I am also trying to teach myself the exemplary balancing act.

Strangely I do not wish to bring this to a close now. Shouldn't closures be for matters resolved and not for matters which ride in tandem with incertitude? Choosing between right and wrong ails not me and things are not coloured by shades of necessity. My hamartia lies some place else...a farce in two acts.

2007-12-07T03:53:00.000-08:00

I would like to translate this minute into a symphony or a play, a sonnet or a melody. Something beautiful, something fine, something to last for a lifetime.

2007-12-06T04:21:00.001-08:00

My Ahiliya, sleep in my arms
Long has been my wait,since you rose from my side
My warrior come home, to kiss my feet
Take off your deerskin, put your cares aside
The mountains retire into the mist
And the leaves shiver in the cold
Lie on the pillow I wove for you
Lie beside me, the night grows old
I am the tsula you draw in
And I am the smoke that surrounds you
I am the one certainty you have
When the dark spirit confounds you
This pipe is man, strong and enfolds
The bowl and his woman he holds
Till all his thoughts within
Gently under the skies, unfolds.
And when you arch to draw the smoke
The Creator's breath fills your soul
And the smoke rises up to unify
Broken once and then made whole
Our dreams and hopes twirl in the fume
But our prayers against the gathering gloom
Is the 'us' we have, not talismans and charms
Rest my Ahiliya, sleep in my arms...

............................................................

Drawn from a native American folk lore. Its interesting to witness the intrinsic part grass plays in love, religion and the community. Although, this post is not to advocate for it. We, unfortunately live in different times.

Comic Art

2007-12-04T18:53:00.000-08:00

Trying to post this ...um..post again. Hope my luck won't run out on me this time around and the images will load just fine.

2007-12-02T10:28:00.000-08:00

Reds four up against Bolton. Rafa is happy tonight and so am I. 30 points, a GD of +20 and escalation to third position[but thank your Anfield stars for that Nicolas Anelka botch up]. Man Utd have a game tomorrow against Fulham so we might have to climb down the rung.

But methinks thats tomorrow and let tomorrow worry about itself.

Ophelia.

2007-12-02T05:57:00.000-08:00

And when tonight is done
I think I'll rest my tired feet
And I think, I am thinking too much
Or is this the sweet taste of defeat

As Eirene walked on the wooden board, her spangled sleeves caught the sun's stare and gleamed.When I peel off my skin do I terrify, or should I just swipe the smile off my face.... Sound make ridges,a sleepwalker awakens and she thinks he recites his lines to perfection

Fear it, Ophelia, fear it, my dear sister,
And keep you in the rear of your affection,
Out of the shot and danger of desire....

You said you wish to know me, inside out, without within, so why do I terrify now when I peel off my skin. I hear a voice say Be wary then; best safety lies in fear but what remedy to curiosity .

Eirene,Eirene don't you desecrate...I lift the branch and shrink under the weight. Someone get me out of here.. And she says-

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven

And she is tempestuous yet calm, intense yet remote. She spins words like a juggler but her pretty talks are the empty wares of an illusionist. I have seen her dancing alone, spinning lightly with a lonely drummer boy for company. Then why does she recoil when I bend to hear the music of her footsteps.

Have I myself of my audience been most free, beautiful and grotesque like yonder Joshua tree

He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders
Of his affection to me.

LORD POLONIUS
Affection! pooh! you speak like a
green girl
Unsifted in such perilous circumstance.,

Come hide me from tomorrow's stern glance, one taste of your fake romance and I would earn my degree.

Tender yourself more dearly
Too frail for the labor of love
But you gave in nearly...

Now I always had Lazarus's soul and I rose from the ashes too. I wailed for my demon lover and waited for angels to see me through. Ah, Ophelia thou art sleeping still and Look to't, I charge you: come your ways

Lady lies in the shallows with the lyre in her arms. She mutely watches as the colours drain from her sky and forms little puddles. But oh, how she likes a chiaroscuro. From the shallows weeds grow, and cover the sleeping child within.But did no one tell you that in a sleep of death what dreams may come

Hamlet, I grow weary,so weary
You pass me by like a stranger
You make love to my memory
Then how in my orisons all your sins be remember'd.

she hears
There's tricks i' the world; and hems, and beats her heart;
Spurns enviously at straws; speaks things in doubt,
That carry but half sense: her speech is nothing,
Yet the unshaped use of it doth move
....

Now I shall take my leave..smile and bow graciously..no farewell speeches please. Goodbyes are best made by not making them at all and though you shall be missed...Come, my
coach! Good night, ladies; good night, sweet ladies;
good night, good night.

........................................................................

The words etched in bold are the Bard's and have been carefully quoted from Hamlet, the first Shakespearean tragedy I read and could make some slight pretense of understanding. Before ADS and his Macbeth happened [ I say his Macbeth although he made it as much ours...a breathing reality rather than a fabled king from the gilded pages of academia]this text about the lovelorn lady and doomed prince fascinated me. And how.

An exercise in alternate narrative.

Afterglow

2007-12-01T21:17:00.000-08:00

Reaping is Done

2007-11-30T19:48:00.000-08:00

My madam picks her silver spoon, and measures out a soupçon of dust. And my madam tears the checkerboard asunder, then crawls under and sleeps in a field of rye. So my madam makes a pillow of the spade, and takes the willow for shade to dream a dream of flying away.

But madam, will you say goodbye, wont you let me sing a lullaby and kiss the lonely gaze. Oh, but she has demons to fight and she cant hear me seranade and while she raises her hell tonight, I pick up my hat and leave the masquerade.

Now as I walk down the primrose path of my making, and although that heart is surely breaking, I think I shall soon forget.

And she says
The reaping is done
And knots come undone
Someone tell me if
It is morning yet...

Scripsi

2007-11-29T21:42:00.000-08:00

There is a part of me which shall be forever you
When I plead my case or when you ask
Me to take my coat of defenses...off.
There is a part of me that shall be forever young
When I slide fingers over a mist kissed window pane
When I write my songs, when I try to entertain
Thoughts of walking barefoot on acres wild
There is a part of me which shall be forever cold
When I sit still,smile fixed irreversibly in place
Or when I twist stalks of the first flushes of spring
There is a part of me which shall be forever false
But[smiling]my truth is a cinematic lie
Just hints of rain in a searing sky
And there was no time for revelations....

But I am not sure who wrote these lines
Or why she stops to fold her palms
A part of me apart from you
Unravelling in troubled arms...

Acclimatize

2007-11-29T03:43:00.000-08:00

In the category of things she was finicky about; dry hands were an incontestable evil. So before she resumed her conversation Em generously dabbed some Nivea across her palm and idly kneaded with her thumb. The woman standing near the door gave an apologetic half smile and said- " Onek dure thake toh, tae aayeteh parum na" before adding shyly " Polapan'r bap mone korbe". This woman is a curio of her kind with her lilting inflected speech and the guilty appeasing gestures that flowed through her. When she was not talking, she was nervously twisting the end of her sari into complicated knots or surveying the patterns on the floor with downcast eyes. Her brows would suddenly rise at some silent question she was mulling over and the sudden drooping twitch around her mouth would tell you that she had reached some distressing conclusion. Em was amusing herself with this mime show when her mother spoke up, trying to employ all her powers of persuasion.Taking advantage of her mum’s momentary preoccupation, Em cautiously stretched her recently indulged fingers towards the bowl of Saratoga chips that she had been very specifically told to stay away from. Furtively popping some in her mouth, she picked up the pen and carefully jotted down the woman’s reply with its exact mother tongue pull.

“Moving out is a funny business if you think of it. You pull out all the whatnots that years of domesticity brings about in its wake- those greeting cards and scrapbooks with faded ink promising years of friendship, dog-eared volume of books, rusted compass and random sketching pencils strewn over photographs which couldn’t find a place in the family album, an old watch with Mickey Mouse dials forever stuck at 8.30, poems written on postcards or dinner napkins, an old address book which makes me philosophical about the various relations that start with a bang and end with a whimper, butterfly hairclips that some fond aunt gave me when I was seven, old schoolbags with some change still jingle jangling in the long unused pockets, letters which your dad wrote to you when you were learning how to read, piebald beads and dried roses in magazines shoved underneath a chaotic pile of clothes- things carefully hidden from the utilitarian’s world view and fondly kept away beneath the paraphernalia of life as little tokens of love, friendship and memories..."

Tictactoe...Down You Go.

2007-11-27T05:27:00.000-08:00

Naughts and crosses, baby blue
Bullets singing a hymn for you
Hide in holes or die without clue
Hush now, you don’t matter
The government, mad as a hatter
Takes up its hammer to shatter
Your independent point of view

Realpolitik now taking shape
Arson, murder, arson, rape
Dry blood on your videotape
Cry havoc and dead bones rattle
Lying naked in a political battle
Hush, now don’t you prattle
For baby there is no escape

And now the country out of grip
All we do is shoot from the hip
Bloodied hands wring from the crib
So rest in peace all those who died
Rest awhile on the leeward side
But the partisan's words bona fide
Sings an anthem of the cartridge clip.

2007-11-17T19:13:00.000-08:00

Supporting herself against feeble palms pressed down on coarse pebbles, Em quitely listened to the hint of breeze in the branches. Now that all the voices in her head were numbed by the early winter chill, she was quite alone. I wanted to know whether she was thinking about her sixpence spool of coloured yarn or whether she was afraid now that the heavens had splattered ink all over it's floor. But if you could see her then, reclining back on improbabilities, teaching herself half-truths and lies...you wouldnt. Instead you would just say-" Isnt that Orion? I think it never looked better than it looks at 3.15 in the morning..."

Six.

2007-11-17T16:59:00.000-08:00

Daddy can you hear my voice
Calling across the stretch called time
Daddy can you hear my voice
Reading out a memorized nursery rhyme
Daddy can you raise me up
Free me of ghosts beneath my bed
Daddy can you watch me sleep
Daddy is your little girl dead
Daddy patiently pick the flowers
And wear the ragged floral crown
Daddy when they make me weep
Make me laugh, play the clown
Daddy when I grow up
And let the world have it's way
Daddy when I grow up
Old as eternity and a day
Now, eternity and a day being up
Whither can we flee
Daddy bring a sprig of yew
And a last bedtime story for me.

The Keyboard.

2007-11-17T02:22:00.000-08:00

Dear Diary, tonight I write
Lines for the stargazer's sake
Mapping the star's hasty flight
Dreaming, half asleep, half awake

Then look up at the firmament
Grey fingers engulf the moon
It's beauty which seemed permanent
Lost in the dark, a bit too soon

Don't turn in your sleep and say
Hope is gone and life, forlorn
Shadows melt with break of day
And life has waited everlong

Everlong, while the human race
Made me think that dreams are gone
And I felt so out of place
I hummed a tune, but forgot the song

Stargazer, look away from your stars
Come down and rest on the ground
And sleep in these moonlit hours
Let dreams spin their magic all around.

.....................................................

woven on this and written for all the stargazers, gazing away in broad daylight.

Untitled.

2007-11-15T04:54:00.000-08:00

I warped the moon while I waited
A thousand beady eyes stared
I went on twisting her sinews
Till her voice was impaired
She croaked like the midsummer crone
I broke the vision of the moon
She struck in hysterics of ire
I burnt her in cold, cold fire
And then you opened the door
The moon was beautiful as before.

2007-11-06T04:38:00.000-08:00

If i am cured of my sinfully slothful nature, the strip will soon follow.

You and I

2007-10-22T21:42:00.001-07:00

Fold me in your palm and let me trace, the lines of sorrow on your immaculate face. Take me through dingy passages oppressed with ennui and the trampled streets of your threadbare existence. Move in closer as we drift in this half and half world between night and dawn, between slumber and wakefulness.Move in closer into this self sustaining moment …the tears lying in the parenthesis of my smile dry on your fingertips. It’s been a long December evening, protracted by trivialities that delineate the day. Nameless faces with strange underpinnings, short stubby fingers jangling change, feet shuffling around in pursuit of happiness while old newspapers and grimy leaves tangle about like dead remnants of days and seasons past.
But who would say that you and I are parts of that broken nondescript world if they saw us leaning against each other, shaking with silent laugher or quietly confiding about irrational fears… What do you think they would say?

“They would say that such artlessness isn’t to be encouraged…”

2007-10-11T09:24:00.000-07:00

A reworking of Thomas Nast's "The "Brains".

2007-10-11T09:20:00.000-07:00

An old work in watercolours.

2007-10-11T09:03:00.000-07:00

My first anime. I have straightjacketed her into a flamenco dress.

2007-10-09T00:58:00.000-07:00

Caliban returned tonight, it’s a happy hour he said
Dreams being spun on the looms of thought are dead
I told him there was a rumor among men
That perchance God is still awake
When will he rest? Leave those thoughts aside
And wear the ebony shroud instead
Let’s play a game of solitaire
Watch how I play to lose
Playing the muted ivory keys
Singing my black man’s blues
Take my mask of harlequin
It fits me ill tonight
I won’t be a tale twice told
Counting stars with blind sight
And death is desired for new life to flower
Your dreams are dead, tis an happy hour
So, wind up, wind up your conditional trust
Before you recoil in the automated shell
Write love-songs while love bites the dust
You are alive yet it feels like Hell
When love is starved and arrested development well fed
Then its time to live, for now your illusions are dead

.....................................
@ Pranav, thanks for reminding me about it's existence:)

Smoking Gun

2007-10-02T10:04:00.000-07:00

Bedlam of battle

2007-09-29T11:09:00.000-07:00

Here, in a room of one’s own, we collect the detritus of yester years. We present to any reader who cares to listen, vignettes of the wasteful war. We who have never lain maimed under the drilled corpse of a comrade or looked at physical brutalities with shell-shocked stupor.What shall we ever know of hell’s upsurge in the dark story of arms and the men? But then ‘English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them’ and battle shall always remain the enervating truth glossed over by whispers of Pro Patria Mori.

Geisha

2007-09-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

2007-09-23T09:37:00.001-07:00

:P...thats David. By the way, thought you should know that the liberties taken have nothing to do with symbolism[like- the yawning gap in the place of the face do not depict the effacing effects of modernity]

Two to Tango

2007-09-22T09:07:00.000-07:00

Ballerina

2007-09-21T09:28:00.000-07:00

After one year and a handful of months, I went back to sketching on photoshop...so am feeling quite good. This one remotely resembles a ballerina[hopefully] although I initially wanted to draw a couple waltzing.

20th September '07

2007-09-20T09:42:00.000-07:00

I saw a particularly insufferable B-grade horror flick today which would have made the devil nosedive straight into the deep blue sea if he were to see it. It had this schmuck suffering from a perpetual bad hair night and whose pancake make-up seemed to have given her a bad case of anaphylactic shock. She sprinted with a dagger; she whirled around in a Brownian motion and did other things which any self respecting spirit wouldn’t do. So I took out my shoes and took myself out in the al fresco.

The Dhakuria Bridge is like a carelessly cluttered montage of sorts. You can stand still while people hustle by and watch a solitary stranger fan out bright red rags on the railroad tracks. Or the kite frozen in suspended animation while street children caper around with arms splayed. Mottled skyline as the light peters out. Birds on their flight back home. And an occasional heart etched out on the bridge by nameless lovers. Once upon a half forgotten time I walked up and saw the lightening flash across the length of the sky.

Starry Night

2007-09-17T11:15:00.000-07:00

The night crawls in and lengthens the shadows across the room. A flattened, larger than life parody in two dimensions that flickers on the wall, bends at the corners, looms from the ceiling. So an aphonic giant keeps you company tonight and counts love’s abuses on your face. What seamless dream sequence woke you up from your troubled sleep and what spasmodic memories keep you awake? Do you bury your ears between your knees to stop the ticking of the bifurcated arms of time or do you lie on the floor and stare at the piece of sky outside your matchbox apartment? Do you try to talk to God, perchance He is still awake or will you hide behind your smokescreen?

Look, while we talk soft grey pencil lines of willowy clouds break and the stars chart their silent pilgrimage across night’s immutable face. Don’t say that maybe we shall lose this tonight as it turns into yet another yesterday; for I have learnt that nothing is really lost. Fast fading faces of loved ones, blurred memory of a happy day, the indefinite felicity of childhood when we thought the sun shone for us …they coalesce till they can no longer be evaluated objectively but stay with us as ‘spots of time’. The fact that we can’t see something doesn’t mean that it doesn’t exist. Maybe it just walked by while you were trapped in a phantasmagoria of your own making. So put out the light and siphon off the shadows on the wall. Go to sleep…it’s a new day tomorrow.

2007-09-03T07:42:00.000-07:00

Hey you, juggling pieces of fragmented dreams, are you going my way? I see you standing on sidelines, riddled with your run of the mill existence, too afraid to move, too tired to stay. Shrug…you don’t have to carry your weight and if you had enough of seeing giants in windmills…look elsewhere for you don’t have to die today. Who told you life would answer some questions? Instead it made you question some answers. Life doesn’t come with subtitles, darling or with user friendly manuals. It just comes with an offer you can’t refuse.

How Green Is My Valley?

2007-08-12T10:15:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: The 'you' used in the post is generalized.

Next time that pathological egotist swaggers up to say-‘Is it hot or just me?’ be
sure to tell the dolt- “its global warming’. And while we are on that topic, we might as well do it properly. You have read about it before your EVS exams and heard about it while changing channels [Read: about global warming and not pathological egotists]. So for a change let’s see what it does and what it intends to do.

I was watching An Inconvenient Truth last week. By the end of the movie I positively hated myself for living in blissful apathy while cataclysmic changes are chocking our planet. For example take a look at the following two images I captured from the movie [no copyrights violated, I hope].

The trees, the sheet of ice and blossoms of wild flowers have disappeared like the emperor’s new clothes in the second flick and it didn’t even take four decades to reach that point of aridity. Did you say-‘how in the blue blazes?’. I am so glad you asked.

I work on the answer why don’t you take a look at these two pictures taken of the glaciers in Nepal:-

What you are witnessing through these pictures is the alarming phenomenon of glacier retreat. Except the ice caps and ice sheets of the Arctic and Antarctic, the total surface area of glaciers worldwide has decreased by 50% since the end of the 19th century. So as the earth becomes more of a frying pan, the glaciers on Andes, Alps, Himalayas, Rocky Mountains and North Cascades melt into oblivion. And if you are wondering what exactly that has to do with us, read this. The Himalayan glaciers that are the sources of Asia's biggest rivers - Ganges, Indus, Brahmaputra, Yangtze, Mekong, Salween and Yellow - could disappear by 2035 as temperatures rise. Approximately 2.4 billion people live in the drainage basin of the Himalayan Rivers. India, China, Pakistan, Bangladesh, Nepal and Myanmar could experience floods followed by droughts in coming decades. In India alone, the Ganges provides water for drinking and farming for more than 500 million people. Increased melting would cause greater flow for several decades, after which some areas of the most populated regions on Earth are likely to 'run out of water' as source glaciers are depleted.

This is not a threat, mister and if you think this is pointless sensationalizing of a nonexistent issue scroll back to the Kilimanjaro pictures. The ice cap has moved back like a receding hair line and only remains in patches-

As the Earth gets scorched by global warming, there is a concurrent acceleration in the rate of evaporation from the great water bodies. Because the world is a closed system, this will cause heavier rainfall and greater erosion. But in Africa this situation takes troublesome proportions since the mangrove forests which kept the soil in place, are being uprooted by man(un)kind. In vulnerable tropical areas like Africa this leads to desertification due to deforestation and its brunt falls on the biodiversity.

Analyze this. Polar bears are stranded on melting ice floe and consequently getting a one way ticket to Davy Jones's locker. This thawing habitat transliterates into major trouble for Emperor penguins, gyrfalcons and the rainbow trout. Seal pups are going hungry and starvation is becoming the Porcupine reindeer herd’s daily bread. Joining this jamboree of destruction is the thoughtless clearing of Ecosystems for biofuel expansion. But we are dealing with the algebra of reciprocality and the equation doesnt augur too well for the fine 'piece of work' that is man. Strange fluctuations in temperature? Changes in climatic [1][2]patterns?
Tropical storms on the hike? Health issues trolling us? What is the humanitarian impact of climate change?

Well, if I havent lost you yet, let me tell you this is the fag end of the post[ did you say-'mercifully'?]

1986-The Year of Reckoning

2007-08-10T07:09:00.001-07:00

My pen bleeds tonight Henryk. The open fields of wheat and silence flicker past like surreal shadows as I retrace my steps back to where it all began. Back to that wrinkle in time when death became our constant keeper and its invisible footprints followed us like marked men. Alessandra went first, the child of the abandoned city and the women cried till their charcoaled eyes drew black streaks down their pallid faces. Then Alexei died during our flight to Ukraine and the children of chernobyl knew they were living on borrowed time.

Spring left Pripyat one April twenty years ago. Do you remember that explosion, Henryk and do you remember the bluish white line that seared the air in its quicksilver flight? It was a parched day and a burnt taste of metal enfolded us with the grip of vice. There were people on the road handing out iodine pills and with sharp tensed gestures asked us to stay indoors. But I walked by them not comprehending the ruckus or the presence of masked men washing the city streets. I walked by them watching the blind gypsy cradling the harmonica on the church steps while tracing the rise and fall of the blues with blind sight…

So, I am going back to my home. I think I can see its long winding paths and the wide eyed sunflowers peeping from window sills. Its proud buildings, the Ferris wheel and the pine forests. Maybe the photographs they print in the papers tell lies. Maybe the sad, vacant debris isn’t my land after all. I once met a woman who stared at the picture of an old dusty piano with tawny music sheets … silent tears running down her glassy eyes. 'Фортепьяно моей моего' she wispered to no one in perticular'они играли это на моей свадьбе'

Those were moments when even time hesitated to move on. It seemed to have stopped as the ghost town was evacuated. We were going to Ukraine. My brother, Alexei was dying, his own body betraying him and we could do nothing but watch in horror. The doctors had removed his diseased thyroid tissue and gave him some months to live. How life compels us to dream different dreams. We, who thought there will be time enough for everything, begged a stoic God for a few more minutes of togetherness. But when time finally took its leave, it took away with it familiar faces. . But you know you been tainted when you look at enlarging nodes on a friend’s neck or the handicapped body of your first born.

But hush, while I write such sad lines , the terminus approaches. Без перевода and may God be with you till we meet again.

....................................

Stolen Strawberries

2007-08-01T21:08:00.000-07:00

The rain had filled the depressions made by my barefeet on the soft saturated earth. Drawing in the elusive smell of wet soil and stolen strawberries, I felt my way by touching the peeling trunks of ancient, cavernous trees and doused sleepy leaves. I had waited till silence had undulated over the house and my solitary escapade from it had became one with the night. I remember when I was younger, I would scrunch up underneath the young coriander tree and shake it's lithe branches. The raindrops would slide down it's parsley like leaves and fall on my face like tears that only angels can cry.

And I remember lying awake and listening to music wafting from the jukebox of a neighbour I had never met.
And I remember trying to understand shapes of the fleecy clouds swirling in the fluid firmament.
And I remember pressing the crushed petals of a roadside shiuli as dawn broke in the sleepy horizon.
And I remember looking longingly at a kaleidoscopic kite tearing the air in it's lonely flight.

And as the rain traced random meandering paths down my arms, I will remember tonight. A sliver of memory savouring of a moist moonlight and stolen strawberries.

Sans Souci

2007-08-01T20:58:00.000-07:00

Madam, don't raise your brows if I talk to that tramp in the dappled shawl. Etching semicircles in the air with suspended toes and fingers contorting to grasp chords that can't waft within your protective walls...I am tired.

Lord knows that I had enough of pseudo non-conformists and consciously careless trainee hippes who quote Lorca, Morrison and Ginsberg. You have a fire burning between your fingers and when you speak the smoke twirls in patterns infinitely more interesting than what you have to say. And you look like an initiate to a cult...happy to be different...not knowing that the credo was to be indifferent.

So you think bohemians are the glamerous outcasts who watch as smoke rings dissolve into poetry and pain mutate into songs. You thought it was abandoned afternoons in blind alleys with mavericks who wisper in nicotine tinged tones. Street with hushed names where somnolent eyes can gather grace.

But you see the careening bodies later, lurching with delirium as demons thrash them around. You see the vacuous sockets later emptied of their piebald dreams. And do you see the indie artist rummaging his dead friend's pockets for his 'naked lunch'.

And does that frighten you, my friend? Or does that make you sad. It's not much, but I have tried to see this civilized world from dusty sidewalks while talking to fakirs selling copper rings. Walk barefoot on warm streets with naked street childrens or inhale time. Silhouette the taut sky or learn to live sans souci. Read verses and drink raindrops. You have watched that hand on the fretboard but hold it tomorrow when it lies limp.

But Lord knows, I had enough of trainee hippies for bohemianism was never about aping prototypes.

Desert Rose

2007-06-30T09:37:00.000-07:00

Haunting...

Eternity is a Moment In Time

2007-06-27T23:24:00.000-07:00

When the unbearable lightness of being calls out from the sepia tinted photographs I search for words unborrowed from another mind. Tell me about the lulling hum of raindrops falling on the gravel and leaves shivering in the mildewed breeze. Reverse those bifurcated hands of time to an age when dryads worked their magic for believing eyes or extend them to escape this warp where the eldritch is thrown to the wind.

Kidnapped within the cold structures of mortar and girder are vacant lives that sink in morasses and forget the art of talking in simple unaffected words. And I ask you 'pray for the wild at heart trapt in cages' and juggle more words out of the babel like a conjurer with a spent trick.

Watch me deal in erudition and ask me what I think about so and so...I am tired of the internalized jargon of phonies and a voice I remotely recognize as my own. The unbearable lightness of being alive and not marionettes.

A Rose on the Grave

2007-06-24T10:20:00.000-07:00

I am catching lightning in a bottle and elemental chaos in my prayers. Life has stretched it's long fingers and dug them deep in your savage mind. When you were a lone midnight rider and the darkness slithered down like ink on your dreaming heart, I loved you like the fairy tales that a certain six year old read and believed in.

Memories of Us

2007-06-20T12:27:00.001-07:00

21st June and it's World Music Day,Im told. With Jeff Buckley's cover of Hallelujah[ thanks to Homesick Alien] drowning the random chords I am playing and some old school of rock after this Keith Urban track...I am in a musical nirvana...

Shooting from the hip

2007-06-19T11:44:00.001-07:00

This isn't about lives less ordinary which lived fast and died young. This is definitely not an eulogy since I don't know enough of Vicious's music to do so or otherwise. I don't own a Sex Pistol so don't ask me if I think he was a legendary punk rocker or just a pale no-hoper who couldn't play bass. And yes,before I forget...this isn't to romanticize Nancy. But have you wondered what it would be to see the sky through her eyes.

I didn't expect them to put this song...It's Cohen song and it's beautiful. Maybe thats why it's here in my blog...the song is pure magic.

Room 100..Chelsea Hotel...RIP Sid and Nancy.

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Snow [Hey Oh]

2007-06-15T01:12:00.001-07:00

Cold December mornings and waking up when the newspaper guy rang the bell. Black coffee and music playing in the apartment...talking about the time when I was living alone. More often than not,I would find myself on the couch and this RHCP track would be the first thing on Vh1...everytime. I don't know how but for weeks it was the first thing I heard.

SCAR TISSUE

2007-06-14T21:39:00.001-07:00

RHCP...and the doctrine of abandonment.

Writings from the Automated hand

2007-06-14T10:30:00.000-07:00

It's like light from a defracted dream vision falling on raindrops sliding down a window sill. Or fleecy clouds dissolving in a darkening horizon in the remains of the day. Or maybe a trembling silhouette against a wall when you have shut the door upon the world.

Maybe you and I didn't need coffee,clever verses on cityscrapes or rock to open the clogged doors to perception. We cluch at life but it slipped through our clenched fingers like sand. Didn't someone say that love can't heal what love has wreaked.

savvy

2007-06-14T09:45:00.000-07:00

Captain Sparrow looks like Cher??!? These T2 reporters aarr preposterous.

Let Them Eat Cakes

2007-06-14T08:20:00.005-07:00

A tip of the hat to those who can bake their cake and eat it too. I am not talking through my hat and by the beard of the prophet I swear it's no cakewalk to bake a cake. Following are the two epiphanies I suffered after that beefcake's birthday-

1. Vanilla essence is revoltingly obnoxious. Some cretin of subnormal intelligence wrote of a svelte female who used it as a perfume and the male moron couldnt figure out what it was and found her irresistibly enigmatic[sic]. well guess what? It isnt. It's a potent male repellent.

2. Never substitute butter for oil...unless of course you know the exact equation. Havn't you heard of the 21 year old girl who tried baking a cake in the thirteenth hour of 2nd June 2007? After being informed by a well wisher that olive oil wouldn't make the cakes sell like...um...hot cakes, she used butter...and landed up with bricks that she later used to scare crows away.

When Everything Is Made To Be Broken

2007-05-29T11:18:00.000-07:00

The video made me throw my hands up and the track made me hastily use those very hands to close my ears. He did an awfully off-kilter job of that Goo Goo Dolls hit Iris. When he was not screeching he was belting out the lines and when he was doing neither, he rode across the screen or stared out of a mammoth satellite disc.

Zippy boy bands, crummy lyrics and tunes like molasses...pop days are good till they last.

Rorschach

2007-05-29T10:59:00.001-07:00

A sneak peak into the Rorschach Test.

http://www.deltabravo.net/custody/rorschach.php

Raising high the roofbeam, Carpenters...

2007-05-28T12:07:00.000-07:00

Random six things that make me happy-

1. Get up and discover that I still have an hour to sleep.

2. Honest music. As honest as Nights in Shining Karma.

3. Walking barefoot in drenched grass or catching sight of a butterfly balancing in
the breeze.

4. Talking to people without whom the going gets tough and Sundays when bhaiya calls

5. Finishing the sudoku before babba

6. Being ma's numero uno stress buster

Colourblind

2007-05-28T11:55:00.000-07:00

Your Eyes Should Be Violet

Your eyes reflect: Mystery and allure

What's hidden behind your eyes: A quiet passion

What Color Should Your Eyes Be?

Toothsie

2007-05-28T09:25:00.000-07:00

Today I made a momentous discovery that I hate to be dragged out of the house at three in the afternoon. Specially if it is done to meet that dash and a dot dentist whom we will call Plopboinkgruff for obvious privacy reasons.

Plopboinkgruff's chamber is a typical oishob jaega where the receptionist stares till you fell you are some exhibitionist ready to break into hives. So you just flip through the well thumbed magazines or listen to the nauseating chatter of some precocious kid or maybe look outside the window at that sleazy celluloid poster with some imbecile of an actor smiling, as it seemed at gunpoint.

The insufferably bulimic woman hanging around his neck looked like that fabled Betaal. I am, of course talking about that guy in the poster and not Plopboinkgruff who summoned us, an hour after the appointed time. He was barking at some one when we entered and kept on barking for the next ten minutes. Finally when he had exhausted his creativity in invectives, he snarled at us.

The point is, ma's gums are bleeding. The last doc waved it off as psychological[ psychological bleeding? for Pete's sake]and she wanted a second opinion. SO Mr Plopboinkgruff tried to get to the root of the problem[ hey, if you didn't get the pun, then go back and re-read the last line] and all the while ma kept on talking about some imaginary relatives whom he had miraculously cured.

He looked as if she had just passed him free lunch baskets. The diagnosis was promptly pronounced- Vit K deficiency. He paused theatrically to notice our response aaaand then said with concentrated gravity- 'A B C D E F G H I J...K' with each letter being enunciated with an alarmingly escalating pitch. These dentists are crazy.

Yawn...

2007-05-28T02:34:00.000-07:00

Your Brain's Pattern

You have a dreamy mind, full of fancy and fantasy.
You have the ability to stay forever entertained with your thoughts.
People may say you're hard to read, but that's because you're so internally focused.
But when you do share what you're thinking, people are impressed with your imagination.

What Pattern Is Your Brain?

Blogthings....I swear I was bored and had nothing else to do.

2007-05-28T02:30:00.000-07:00

You Are a Chick Rocker!

You're living proof that chicks can rock
You're inspired by Joan Jett and the Donnas
And when you rock, you rock hard
(Plus, you get all the cute guy groupies you want!)

What Kind of Rocker Are You?

Y?

2007-05-27T08:10:00.001-07:00

Why do they kill all the cute guys?

Calvin and Hobbes

2007-05-25T02:19:00.000-07:00

What do you do after a particularly insane conversation about dogs , drunkards and humongous lassos? But since this post has nothing to do with dogs, drunkards and lassos, humongous or otherwise you can conveniently forget about them. We'll talk about a pint sized genius, a sardonic lovable tiger, a transmongrifier, a flying time machine and the ten years of Calvin and Hobbes cartoon strip created by Bill Watterson.

I don't know about you but as a kid I positively adored the newspaper. Amidst the gore, the scoreboards, crosswords and the stock market values was a page dappled with colour which the grown ups would hand down to me. Mickey grinned back from one corner while Dennis wisecracked from another. From the Garfield and Odie days I stepped up to Snoopy, Modesty Blaise and later the rather politicized Doonesbury. But if I had to chose from this morass of puns and punchlines and bell the most endearing cat in the block, it would have to be Calvin and Hobbes.

The strip ran from 1985 to 1995 and I sorely wish Watterson could come right back and sketch some more. Appearing in 24,000 newspapers worldwide and boasting of more than 30 million sold copies of the Calvin and Hobbes books, the strip almost instantly attracted popular imagination.

This one is the first strip featuring the rambunctious kid in striped red shirt. The namesake of the sixteenth century theologist John Calvin, this six year old is ingenious, curious, pixilated and outlandishly creative. Hobbes[ nomenclature from the 17th century philosopher Thomas Hobbes] is for sidekicks, an accomplice in Calvin's imaginative escapades who swings between the extremes of being a stuffed tiger and a full grown arthropomorphic feline friend. If this schism bothers you, I suggest you read what the creator has to say about his work-

"When Hobbes is a stuffed toy in one panel and alive in the next, I'm juxtaposing the 'grown-up' version of reality with Calvin's version, and inviting the reader to decide which is truer...".

This is a medley of few of my personal favorites that I could ferret out through a google search.

This one killed me[I could not find the other Einstein strip where the kiddo says- "You know how Einstein got bad grades as a kid? Well, mine are even worse!"] What's rib tickling is the adorable way he goes around challenging established ideas, not genuflecting to theories and not letting textbooks think for him.

didn't think I would get lucky with this strip. I actually read it years back on some jhalmuri packet[btw, what do you call a thonga in English?] and was glad to rediscover it. See that grown-ups-can-be-so-stupid look on Calvin's face?

I could morph Calvin's face with mine. No further comments.

Will the victims of parental shrewdness please stand up? Whatever made you think those benign looking mortals are putty in your hands?

I wish I remembered more about Tracer Bullet, Stupendous Man and Spiff. But it's a babel up here and beyond vague impressions of amusement at various strips, I don't recall any individual piece that left me in splits. But there two jaunty, natty strips that I have to upload..

.

These are stuffs that drollery is made of-

By the way, did you know there was actually a strip which didn't feature Calvin, Hobbes, his dad, mom, Susie...anyone. I am trying to get this collector's piece and when i do I'll upload it. I'll leave you now with my favorite strip...

http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Theater/9876/raccoon1.html

Postscript-
This is the last printed strip-

Ok, for those of you who didn't read it as folks who know poetry when they see one, are most welcome to post in your own favorite strips. Better still take this test, if you have time to kill-

http://www.okcupid.com/tests/take?testid=6155057840809005322

Liverpool

2007-05-24T01:35:00.000-07:00

In the dying minutes of the match, the heart could break. The ground was a riot of red and the last thing I remember before snapping off the TV, was Kopites holding Merseyside streamers high
against the Athenian winds.

This post is for you fans out there hollering 'handball'. The Reds don't need those bulwarks to hide their pride. Shrugging shoulders and blaming others is the credo of losers and the part of you which is forever red shall never bite the dust. We played well. We tamed the Milan brigade and the Kakas, Maldinis and Nestas were just shadows on the field. Having said that, its only fair to add that our finishing was poor and there were some slipped opportunities. Kuyt had his moments but he never emerged as a lead striker.

This post is also for you who woke up today and saw the scoreboard- 2-1. Mate, you missed some good football. Pennant was brilliant and Masch locked Kaka and gave him no space. We had an awesome ball possession and ask that Ancelotti who dominated the field more.

Now back to the fans. The season in the offing will see us move from strength to strength. You know 'You'll never walk alone' and Anfield...I still scream 'Liverpool'.

Soccer!!!!!!!

2007-05-23T08:34:00.000-07:00

"Here's a song about a football team
The greatest team you've ever seen
A team that play total Football
They've won the league, Europe and all.

A Liverbird upon my chest
We are the men, of Shankly's best
A team that plays the Liverpool way
And wins the championship in May ..."

- -Liverbird Upon my Chest

The fields of Anfield Road might be touched with crimson before the turn of this year. The team that rose out of the ashes two years back against Milan find themselves against the Italian giants once again. With five Champions League titles the men in red have moved from strength to strength and while Ancelotti might shelve the English team as the least talented of the top EPL teams[ Man Utd. Chelsea and Liverpool] the kopites can give Athens a game to remember and talk about.

Some random facts-[ courtesy BBC SPORTS]

1. AC Milan and Liverpool's only previous meeting in European competition was the epic Champions League final of 2005, which ended in a 3-3 draw. The English club had recovered from a 3-0 half-time deficit, and eventually won 3-2 on penalties.

2. Milan have played in 13 European finals, winning eight and losing five. In the Champions Cup/Champions League, they have played in 10 previous finals, winning six and losing four.

Liverpool have played in 10 European finals, winning eight and losing two. In the Champions Cup/Champions League, the Merseysiders have only lost once in six finals.

3. Paolo Maldini will be playing in his eighth Champions Cup/Champions League final, equaling the record set by Real Madrid's "Paco" Gento in the 1950s and 1960s.

4. Liverpool can equal AC Milan's six Champions Cup/Champions League wins. Only Real Madrid (nine) have more. The Spanish record of 11 Champions Cup/Champions League titles will be equaled, regardless of which club wins the match. Both Italy and England currently have 10. If Liverpool win, Spain's record of 29 European titles will be equaled by English clubs.

Tahole it's tonight. Football gets me atavistic.

Rhapsody

2007-05-22T10:38:00.000-07:00

Encircled my arm around and strummed with fingers since I couldn't excavate any picks in my room. Sliding up and down the strings and flexing fingers to get the chords right. I should be miffed cuz my fingers are weak making the sound come in feeble halts but guess, I am happy. It feels good when you play so close to your heart and who knows...since the hours go like minutes and one day I might play my own songs...

2007-05-22T10:11:00.000-07:00

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

I am irritated.

2007-05-13T21:27:00.000-07:00

I am irritated. You know those moments when you glance over your shoulders to look back at your life and nothing but a yawning nothingness stares right back at you? Heeysuss, I feel like a grinning idiot. No, seriously. Everything I write either smacks of contrivance or sounds like some verbose cliche that would make the dead asphyxiate six feets under. I am doing nothing but pilfering ideas, thoughts and what have you.

I want a dog. A nice labrador or a spaniel. A perfect cure for the mean reds.

Jottings

2007-05-11T06:48:00.001-07:00

Its a brisk walk from Eliot Park to my house and you should'nt have much problem locating it if you walk as the crow flies. Do not stop to ask for directions for people who have no inkling where they are heading can not guide you. Come in the dying light of the day when the sagging wires cut a line across mute buildings mottled with time. The proud structures of the city trace silhouettes against a scanty greying sky and you might see a solitary songbird silently perched on the gaunt arms of a roadside tree. Or maybe the dappled wares sprawled on the street shall catch your fancy and it's riot of colours. The peanut seller who would take a second off from roasting the nuts to twitch his mustache and snap beads of sweat or maybe the hawker who would hustle with plastic toys or the ingratiating voice of some tramp. Park Street is dotted with eating joints where men wolf food the docter warned them to stay away from and little barefooted children who brazenly sing songs from the celluloids.
And as you walk by will you internalize the scene with the snippets of conversation that waft your way and maybe you could go back to your appartment and write down some verses about it. Watch them but hurry on by. Don't halt to ask for directions. for they will surely say that the place doesnt exist. And some might add that it never existed.

random thoughts.

2007-05-10T11:44:00.000-07:00

What happens when you have this feeling that sticks like a monkey on your back? You write posts that no one reads.

I read somewhere that Dali got his inspiration from his half-somnulent state. I am half sleepy. may be I'll come up with surrealistic posts. Maybe the words will have an out- of- body experience and maybe some day someone from somewhere will somehow read this and say-'avant-garde'. And maybe there will be a prose style inspired by this humble blogger.

Have you read Catcher in the Rye? Mark Chapman was obsessed with the book. Did you know that? You did! It's a great read...just about killed me. But it saved the best for last. There is something in the mill-on-the-floss situation that gets me misty eyed in minutes. Of course it draws on[the novel i mean] but that Phoebe just redeems everything.

Holden is a lesson. I mean, he is a tiring, dissatisfied, angst ridden tenager who engages in lies and half truths without any scrupples and is as phony and superficial as the people he dislikes. And yet he wrests out all the sympathy he can...much like that despicable protagonist of Lolita. Nabokov set a trap and i walked straight into it...at least for the first few chapters. Dont ask me about the last few chapters. I never got around to reading them. I prefer my senses being assaulted by that guy playing Wilde in Wilde than going through Book II. Revolting.

What am I reading right now?Mice and Men and Nonsense Novels.

Cohen

2007-05-10T10:57:00.000-07:00

I promise this one is going to be boring. Infact i dont intend to read it myself the second time around. For the past few days i have been reading some Cohen...what? no, dont worry...im NOT going to tell you about the various extraneous circumstances that drove me to discover Cohen[specially if they are as mundane as a google search]

So, as i was saying before getting distracted, Cohen has this wonderful conversational ton, distilled off all pedantry, artifice or anything that is not natural or entrenched in the local colour of the age that produced him. He is just like you and me, a man who came, saw and wrote, who is the godfather of gloom ... wait a minute...can we reverse time to 'and wrote'? we cant? You bet we can. and if it's the other way, just pretend,right? right!

So what was that the godfather of gloom thing...aha! I nicked it from this webpage I had been reading. It calls him the grocer of despair among other things. Thats strange. Granted, he is slightly pessimistic, now that you mention it...but "the prince of bummers"??? That can have two possible explainations-

a. I cannot read poetry. its multifarious nuances are quite lost on my obfuscated gray matter.
Works of sublimity are wasted on me.

b. I am as morbid, morose, pessimistic and bleak as the poet, so reading his works didnt make me feel its perticularly dismal or doleful[boy, am I good at being a cynic]

But these deliberations fade in comparison to what is to come. Yes, readers there is more. The article goes on to quote him-'"The heart,goes on cooking, sizzling like shish kebab." I could slit my wrist. Im begining to enjoy this write-up. quite informative. infact i get my option c.
Cohen was on substance abuse which kind of skewed him up the lonesome, joyless alley. I could quote from the article...but I am sure I have lost your interest entirely and don't want to aggravate you further.

Apologia

2007-05-10T08:07:00.000-07:00

Attention. spelling errors galore. thank God i nurture no ambition of being the next webster.

Carmalite Creed

2007-05-10T07:42:00.000-07:00

If that alliteration did not catch your attaintion, what i am going to scribble might. I had been hearing a lot about the Calmalite sisters for some time now and at last curiosity got the better of piety( Blogging is the modern confessional. I confess it was more out of wonder than anything else that i found myself on that rather insulated CAmac Street Church) and i got Maggie to take me there.

I don't think i owe you a setting cuz- a. this is not a novel and b. you won't give a fig either way. So i'll safely cut out all scenic details, the fact that it rained after the weatherman predicted it...will(surprise!) will not find any existence here.

The Carmalite sisters do not show their faces to anyone and lead cloistered lives inside a building attached to the church. this much i had gathered from AM ma'am's class when i was getting kicks out of looking like the well-informed student which i am not( the old trick. nodding knowingly when she spoke about the Sisters). But what i guess i found interesting was the window which was a sort of revolving structure. You just need to place whatever you want to give them and then hey, it revolves and it goes on to the other side. Now you see it and now you dont. But what you never see are the sisters. In fact I had heard some rumour that they emerge under the cover of the dark and walk about surreptitiously in the premises. But it sounded too gothic and i have shrugged it off.

We lit candles. We went to the chapel. We felt sanctified[read with a voice as deadpan as it gets]
we spoke about the evils of the world. We smilled sadly like two beatified saints who are remorse struck at the world's ruin. Then what happened? Well, I guess we forgot about it over a burger and coke in McDonalds.

PS- Ok. I lied. I forgot about it. Maggie is a believer. whatever.

Wednesday Morning Musings.

2007-05-01T18:35:00.000-07:00

Its a quarter past seven in the morning and the whole day lies stretched infront of me like a ... hmm...running out of similes. The point is, its the second day of my 'i-shall-live-off-the-huks'[ kindly bear that sms insinuation] resolution and I have been living nearly the same way I had been trudging through life a day back. The moral of the story- You can never be contented when you are trying to be happy.
but then I am plagiarizing someone else's thoughts. Some one one of a kind and definitely not meant for mass production. If anyone from Scottish Church is logged in then they will know who I have on my mind. the name is Da Silva, Alan Da Silva. And if you are not from SCC then its about time you got a introduisîmes[that darn translator...it came up with nothing more exotic]. But thats for later. My dad has an evil grin on his face and I guess that weapon called angst does not work on him any more. Adios...I'll log back later.

Maverick

2007-05-01T05:06:00.000-07:00

Hello, walk in through the half open door
Take a seat, surely we have met before
I am schizophrenic, I live fragmented
By halves rational, by halves demented
I distill the postwar cynicism
Spartan conflicting with hedonism
And I am not your Gibson propriety
An abridged text of contrariety
I don’t write confessional limericks
I don’t belive in real politiks
And freedom is my piety
I am learning to be placid
Comprehending you takes time
The silence burns like acid
Against the dwindling of a rhyme.
I may be bohemian
But please don’t catagorise
I have no silverspoon
Only the wealth of butterflies.
And if you think you know me
Or if we have never met
It hardly matters if u recall
Or deliberately forget.

Disparate thoughts

2007-05-01T04:11:00.000-07:00

I have been sitting around with a blinking screen and an empty mind. Ideas flit back and forth but the trappings of language fails to give them any concrete expression. What should i scribble about? About global warming perhaps...it seems to cater to some issue of world importance. People will glance at it and say-"thats a concerned young lady." or maybe they will shrug it off-" nicked it from some environmental science book'. Maybe I should write a passionate account on the futility of life or any other contemporary philisophical problems plaguing our generation. For people like me there should be prose haiku. Twenty words and no more.