He Spoke Love
I did not quite realize when I left him behind. But then he was always the languorous one, slow and sentient. He is never one of those noticeable types and that is probably why I don’t concede to him, or myself the fact of what he means to me. It seems so naïve and sissy to let him know that. But, that opportunist, he melts into tarmac, spreading himself too inconspicuously thin whenever I might need him.
I was going to prove today different. Going to prove I could be complete without him. That I did not need any more of his gifts. More than anything I needed to prove to myself that I did not need him to tell me, show me, make me aware of the subtle gratifications around me. That I could feel like I wanted nothing more, wanted to be nowhere else, without him.
The opposing flows, in one of the city’s busiest precincts left a void that seemed interesting. As a grudging admissal of his omnipotence I agreed to let myself think on his purported lines. “Beauty is contrast.” He had said. So the macabre could be beautiful I concluded.
The spectacle the void held and which everyone else seemed to be ignoring was in utter contrast to the rest of its surroundings. It very well satisfied my callow standards of connoisseurship and my insatiable buds of taste. Something about the retard shrouded in delinquency mocking a hungry dog with a dead sparrow, eyes still open, held me for a moment and then I held made myself hold me with a grin, of scorn. And when that realization did set in, I grew fearful and despondent.
I went back all the way, but he was long gone.
Requiem for a schizophrenic
He is my shield against the world, which I conjure when he’s not around. He would always take the coldness, which I could feel now, on him.
Fleeting along the hilly roads my sleep was broken to a voice I thought I was familiar with. But with the tone I was not. It sounded tired, cynical and mistrusting. She Who had once been my goddess, given to a cruel turn of time and worse: having given up. Some thing rose up within me as tears floated down her cheeks, now withered and lineated. The sparrow’s eyelids refused to flutter, no matter how hard I tried. If I could just have had his hands to close its eyes and not see my own face reflected in them. I waited but he didn’t come. The cold fog glossed its eyes.
I would never let him go this time.
A setting for eternity
“Why do you pick me, tired but restless traveler?” asked the flower of four white petals of me.
“To keep you in my book so that I may remember you all those years later.”
“When you shall look at me all those years after I shall not remind you of myself but of this journey that you are on for I shall seem out of place. I shall remind you of the other traveler who looked just like you and went this way a time not long ago.”
“Describe him better.”
“Of body, I need not for he looked just like you. Of mind, I cannot, save tell you what he said when I danced the Sun’s beams off my petals into his eyes:
“Tempting flower, I shall drink you in here and now but I shall not take you with me for you belong here in the street of hundred flowers. I shall remember you but without the hope of holding you forever. You are momentary as is this feeling that you give me and I am glad for that and not sad for the rest of the moments that you could not be with me.”
I don’t think you should or could have me”.
With that the four petals dropped one by one and left in my hands a virginal stump whose pollen irritated my nose when I sniffed them. I felt close to him. The sun rose higher and the tears on Her cheeks glistened as dew, the sparrows lids fluttered. I felt closer to him and it felt nice.
I could see his silhouette against the Sun now. All what separated us was the frozen layer on what turned in summers into a waterfall. Skeptically, I watched a few sheep walk across the steep slope. How naïve and foolish, they are! I could not help wondering. They probably don’t even realize they would be dead if they slipped on that ice. Then it was my turn. I stepped on that ice but it seemed harsh and hard just because I had expected something softer. It did not offer me even the hint of a grip; of course it owed me nothing. Tremulous with my feet curling up within my shoes, I thought I should turn back. Then he turned to his side, saw the sheep below, turned his eyes towards me and then back on the sheep.
Sometimes in life you need to be naïve and foolish. You need to trust blindly. You need to do things and not analyze them. My feet opened up and I walked across in a few confident, insouciant steps. We trekked on, me behind him and content.
Some people call him my naïveté, I don’t think it accurate. But then no one word can be. You may call him whatever you wish to but I’d still never let him go.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
When three KGPians go out for a night
Prologue
The pangs of rebellion. That’s what began it all. Pressure (or the seeming lack of it) has varied effects on people. I like to think that I, myself and my band of brothers deal with it by negating it to the stature of muffled yelps of a mongrel that you hate anyway. It might seem very escapist but then I rarely take anything that seriously. So what the hell if its escapist? Guys, it’s FUN.
On a moderately warm day in March in the year of our lord 2005, the aforesaid band experienced a slight ruffle. A splinter was sleeping, another trying to live a hero’s dream through their optimistically imaginative brains. For another though it was stifling. We needed a new kind of dope. But what new source of gratification might one find in our sleepy little hamlet?
Myself, Mr. Puerile Profundity, my pals the Ponglassian and the Honestly Rapturous moved to the Lounge aka Cheddis (something’s better on the other side). On the way
Back a solemn reality struck us in the face: our sleepy hamlet was huge. Hell, it even had its own airstrip.
We three knights of the empire of Hedoniss had just found our life’s purpose or better still we were ready to reclaim what had once been ours: our life and the fun that came along with it.
Present Day
We are walking along the path that links the air-conditioned torture chambers to the abodes of the propagandists of the world’s newest faith. The phase shift between the old and the new being not that luculent and we being the obfuscated children of a taciturn, conformist generation are allowed the luxury of being logical or illogical as time suits us. We want to be illogical (or probably too fiercely logical) at this time and so are. It strikes Ponglassian that wells go deep down to hell and (ohmigod) Samara (from ‘the ring’) is supposed to haunt the one among the cluster of trees. We want to be gullible, we want to believe, we want to be afraid and so when we see a well next to a deserted temple, we just don’t care about the trees. They are there somewhere in the background, but hey, everything aint perfect.
After we’ve scared our skin to Goosebumps comes the finishing touch. Honestly Rapturous sees a pale hand on the well’s sill illuminated by a flash of lightning. In retrospect, I wonder why she left us alone. I guess she naively presumed smokers don’t make good parents. (For the faint-hearted, the insipid and the unimaginative: there was no lightning.)
Onwards
Faint whistles tell us patrols can see us, so we switch off our torches. Its pitch black, we can see no cattle paths, the treeless wilderness stretches out in front of us like eternity. Guided by the light of an inconspicuous moon we make it to a stonewall twice higher than any of us. It seems freaky as such but our fear reaches its zenith when a spark lets us appreciate the gate.
Rusted but strong it is held by a chain turned over so many times it seems to be a mile long. Like someone’s been making sure the monster inside stays there. Mr. Rapturous though kills the fright (if you could do that) By observing that no matter how many turns a chain turns you still need to break it at just one point to allow the gate to open. HR immediately regrets his words after the reception of a (actually two) sardonic thanks. Made to whimperingly stand aside like the seeker in a hide-and-seek game who counted to hundred alright but counted too fast he entrusts his levels of adrenalin to the two masters of the game.
The patrol though has moved away. They’re probably despondent after watching us on the threshold of knowing their best-kept secret.
Things are about to get better (or worse). Ponglassian switches on his torch. The beam though falls at an angle quite incomprehensible (destiny!). There is no reason why the beam should point to where it does. It isn’t where either of us was looking; it isn’t even where either of us had looked. It is one silly angle. Though what it illuminates is awesomely unsilly. It reveals wall after wall of brickwork with each cell about a human being in height and two in width, which extends along an arc as far as our torch can help us fathom.
I had always suspected as much. If our hamlet had once been instrumental in suppressing a revolt of a phenomenal magnitude surely the six dingy cells near the old building couldn’t suffice as they had us believe
(But then they even had us believe the library was a fun place, remember the long queues for the library card just after registration? But that I’m afraid is another story).
And wasn’t that darkness that hung between every two walls the silhouette of a rotten carcass of a champion of our causes? Assuring them (as ourselves) that we’d come back on a brighter day and in a calmer state of nerves we decided to end our soirée. The journey back home didn’t take quite as much time as the one described above. Not surprising, considering the patrol finally caught up with us. (For the faint-hearted, the timid or the dead, the light of the subsequent day revealed the walls to be supports for a meter wide sewage pipe. How unexciting, right? But then as Mr. Poe would have said excitement is the spice of life, You cant have too much of it.)
Prologue
The pangs of rebellion. That’s what began it all. Pressure (or the seeming lack of it) has varied effects on people. I like to think that I, myself and my band of brothers deal with it by negating it to the stature of muffled yelps of a mongrel that you hate anyway. It might seem very escapist but then I rarely take anything that seriously. So what the hell if its escapist? Guys, it’s FUN.
On a moderately warm day in March in the year of our lord 2005, the aforesaid band experienced a slight ruffle. A splinter was sleeping, another trying to live a hero’s dream through their optimistically imaginative brains. For another though it was stifling. We needed a new kind of dope. But what new source of gratification might one find in our sleepy little hamlet?
Myself, Mr. Puerile Profundity, my pals the Ponglassian and the Honestly Rapturous moved to the Lounge aka Cheddis (something’s better on the other side). On the way
Back a solemn reality struck us in the face: our sleepy hamlet was huge. Hell, it even had its own airstrip.
We three knights of the empire of Hedoniss had just found our life’s purpose or better still we were ready to reclaim what had once been ours: our life and the fun that came along with it.
Present Day
We are walking along the path that links the air-conditioned torture chambers to the abodes of the propagandists of the world’s newest faith. The phase shift between the old and the new being not that luculent and we being the obfuscated children of a taciturn, conformist generation are allowed the luxury of being logical or illogical as time suits us. We want to be illogical (or probably too fiercely logical) at this time and so are. It strikes Ponglassian that wells go deep down to hell and (ohmigod) Samara (from ‘the ring’) is supposed to haunt the one among the cluster of trees. We want to be gullible, we want to believe, we want to be afraid and so when we see a well next to a deserted temple, we just don’t care about the trees. They are there somewhere in the background, but hey, everything aint perfect.
After we’ve scared our skin to Goosebumps comes the finishing touch. Honestly Rapturous sees a pale hand on the well’s sill illuminated by a flash of lightning. In retrospect, I wonder why she left us alone. I guess she naively presumed smokers don’t make good parents. (For the faint-hearted, the insipid and the unimaginative: there was no lightning.)
Onwards
Faint whistles tell us patrols can see us, so we switch off our torches. Its pitch black, we can see no cattle paths, the treeless wilderness stretches out in front of us like eternity. Guided by the light of an inconspicuous moon we make it to a stonewall twice higher than any of us. It seems freaky as such but our fear reaches its zenith when a spark lets us appreciate the gate.
Rusted but strong it is held by a chain turned over so many times it seems to be a mile long. Like someone’s been making sure the monster inside stays there. Mr. Rapturous though kills the fright (if you could do that) By observing that no matter how many turns a chain turns you still need to break it at just one point to allow the gate to open. HR immediately regrets his words after the reception of a (actually two) sardonic thanks. Made to whimperingly stand aside like the seeker in a hide-and-seek game who counted to hundred alright but counted too fast he entrusts his levels of adrenalin to the two masters of the game.
The patrol though has moved away. They’re probably despondent after watching us on the threshold of knowing their best-kept secret.
Things are about to get better (or worse). Ponglassian switches on his torch. The beam though falls at an angle quite incomprehensible (destiny!). There is no reason why the beam should point to where it does. It isn’t where either of us was looking; it isn’t even where either of us had looked. It is one silly angle. Though what it illuminates is awesomely unsilly. It reveals wall after wall of brickwork with each cell about a human being in height and two in width, which extends along an arc as far as our torch can help us fathom.
I had always suspected as much. If our hamlet had once been instrumental in suppressing a revolt of a phenomenal magnitude surely the six dingy cells near the old building couldn’t suffice as they had us believe
(But then they even had us believe the library was a fun place, remember the long queues for the library card just after registration? But that I’m afraid is another story).
And wasn’t that darkness that hung between every two walls the silhouette of a rotten carcass of a champion of our causes? Assuring them (as ourselves) that we’d come back on a brighter day and in a calmer state of nerves we decided to end our soirée. The journey back home didn’t take quite as much time as the one described above. Not surprising, considering the patrol finally caught up with us. (For the faint-hearted, the timid or the dead, the light of the subsequent day revealed the walls to be supports for a meter wide sewage pipe. How unexciting, right? But then as Mr. Poe would have said excitement is the spice of life, You cant have too much of it.)
Poule
Conventional upbringings don’t always
lead to conventional people
A case in point: Poule.
A non abusive father
A temperate mother
Inconspicuous at school
Selective with friends
not exigent enough to be disliked
at college.
A harlot, definitely.
A coquette, probably.
A lucrest, remotely.
A narcissus for few
An inamorata for some
A vent for the rest
but never in love.
A voyeuring soul
fed by the slightness
of human nature
fed by how things so
worthless to her could arouse
passions so intense in others.
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