a,the
bombay








i have seen it coming



a bombay can happen because everyone has stopped looking at their everyday

i contort
i twist my insides out

.
.
i will find the way
the ways

it is just the everyday that you have to keep a check on to keep a bombay impossible
everyday
look at the people around you
look people in the eye when you talk to them
remember their names
stop for the dog
don't give money to the children who beg on the street
or any able bodied individual who has resorted to begging
eat less
walk more
walk
hug people like you mean it
live like you mean it
t
h
i
n
k
.
bombay happened
because we insist on not thinking
..we.

spring clean

i would climb up to your room to wake you.
we would sit side by side in the vast vacant space of your room and stare for a bit.
and then you'd start putting things up on the wall from the packing.

but the camera has no interest in embodied space.


we will stay the strangers we were meant to stay.

i just spotted my newest fears.
i gave them words.
i'm ramming them head on.
it's easy,i can see them now.
words are good for something.
lol...

Today is Sunday



Today is Sunday
For the first time they took me out into the sun today
And for the first time in my life I was aghast
that the sky is so far away
and so blue
and so vast
I stood there without a motion.
Then I sat on the ground with respectful devotion
leaning against the white wall
Who cares about the waves with which I yearn to roll
Or about strife or freedom or my wife right now.
The soil,the sun and me..
I feel joyful and how.

Translated by Talat Sait Halman

Nazim Hikmet


***
I know what you mean,Isa.:)

something i'd written in 'anger' once,sometime last to last summer, to one of the profs i debate a lot with...

y'know half the women writers never really got to write what they really thought coz it was so difficult to get a chance for their writing to be published or circulated in the first place that, at the end of the battle they were seething with just anger.you can't reach anyone with anger.i can't afford to be angry!
i was angry here.so i couldn't move.
things have changed so much since...
the revolution is within,i have found my channels,we'll see what happens..lol..
no answers coming from no messiah anywhere,from no system.
.
.
anyway it might as well be read
.
.


'Recently I was eve teased by five men, there were four other people sitting at my table. They were all highly 'intellectual'. Books were more of weapons for them than anything else. Yet day before yesterday, they could not say one word for me. I fought sir for twenty minutes,after staying quiet for forty. But somewhere towards the end,..all I could think was that whatever I do, however much I read, figure out, these men will still be able to feel naked in front of them. I realized I am doing all I do, reading whatever I read all because I am being 'allowed' to do it. It is an allowance. In the old history textbooks I used to laugh when there would be sentences like 'The women of the Parsi community were well educated'. We are almost a different animal species. I have been allowed to be just by my family, not necessarily the rest of the society. Those men had the guts to go ahead further more because the men at my table were 'observing' the developments. I walked out of that restaurant. I didn't want to speak to any of them, but over the next two days they spoke to me, some 5 hours at a go, they told me about the 'psychological bunkers' they all had taken cover in,how I hadn't given them 'margin time', how I was fighting quite well and they were just waiting for things to 'escalate some more'. Some more? Till I got hit? If those men had me in an alley way,sir, I would have been raped. Would they watch for it to escalate then too? What is enough? How much thought and theorizing is enough? Why do I have to be resolute to the fact that these things happen and will continue happening because I am physically weaker, because my kind have been subjected to this before. When do I get to breathe in something other than the liminal space my parents provide?

That evening in the restaurant sir, I suddenly got tired .I got tired of always being the screaming 'aggressive' woman. So then maybe I should shut up? Maybe it would all be peaceful then? A lot of women do that..not only when they're being abused as in this case, but also at work . Some stay quiet,but there are others who've probably been hurt so much that now they use their bodies. They now abuse themselves. They throw it around at men and feel justified by the sparkling results in their work. I can't stay quiet and I respect my body,so where is my space? I cannot shut up.'

musical

...'He had to move. He was excruciatingly in command. He had to step
deeper into his terror and further out over the void. There was no
other way. To his left was a rounded outcropping of rock and on the
other side of it a means of descent. Make for over there. He let go of
his left handhold and slipped off one strap of the backpack, then
switched hands, then slowly the other strap. He let the pack fall down
to the rocks below. In some far-off place, in some unreal time, he
hoped the flashlight had not broken.

Then slowly, he began to inch his way left, cranny, by cranny, hold by
hold. He made slow careful progress. He was half way across. With the
toe of his sneaker he felt out the loose-fitting rock in the next
cleft. He kicked away at the broken bits of rock. Nudging his way in,
he tested its strength. It was Okay. He transferred his weight over to
it. It held. He trusted it, committed to it. All his weight, now. The
rock slipped and gave way. His knee banged against the rock wall, his
foot forced down violently, jangling in the air, weightless. I'm
falling. I'm dead.'




andrew boyd

'the most obscure poem is addressed to everybody'
audiberti

today i read truffaut talking about the whiteness of carl dreyer's images and cried.
god help me.lol...

Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight.

Albert Schweitzer

memory still smells around here.

posting cards

we were sitting where we often sat.we'd met today in the passing. i'd started seeing the colours again,see?i told him.
.
..
i tend to tilt the horizon upside down whenever i can't breathe.it usually has it's own colours.talking is easy that way.i can breathe.
i looked up at the sky,the trees.
a corpse.then there was another.
black,hooded,glazed eyes.
i found a stick. i climbed on the roof and tossed one down.the other then.string.the claws were stiff.contorted. still in negotiation.with the same string.we put them in a plastic bag.we walked to the garden.we dug a hole.
it was time the crows were buried.
where we'd often sat.

i consider the following to be the highest task in the relation between two people:for one to stand guard over the other's solitude.if the essential nature of both indifference and the crowd consists in the non recognition of solitude,then love and friendship exist in order to continually furnish new opportunities for solitude.

and only those commonalities are true that rhythmically interrupt deep states of loneliness...
.
.
Rainer Maria Rilke.

cud for a chew?

it was just that the time was wrong
i don't do the talk like they talk on TV
mark knofler


even if i decide to be silent ,even if i decide to promise nothing,not to commit myself to saying something,that, would confirm once again the destination of speech,and the destination towards speech,this silence yet remains a modality of speech:a memory of promise and a promise of memory.
sartre

Tuesday,
1:24 pm

it's one of those tuesdays.lost it at 11:30 am...
information overload.faces,cities,words,films race past my head.purple spots.i can't be bothered with focussing.
detail Detail...i nod in recognition,familiar dear Detail,we've known each other..
magic Méliès..jumping spaces in the same frame,now at my feet,now at the ledge,rajasthan,the cold chill on the roof,trains passing by in the night,all lights ablaze...some of the windows are dark...like filled in staff paper.
we're moving to the music in our heads,i watch the tail lights of the bikes driving down the hill,you bring the cigarette to your lips in the dark,the lit end glows red...just like the tail lights,different co ordinates.just that.the poetry is in the timing the poetry is in the timing.

the question is about the point.maybe.one more shot at the answer,now?the fear of even articulating the question lest it mushrooms into this giant oak while i sit and stare at screens.
my brain is queer.i think it processes in my sleep better.
.
.
one of my films has almost reach space.
i metaphorically built mr. kabakov's catapult in my room.maybe i'll put up pictures of the rubble here...
the film has become a person. a self sufficient entity.editing felt like a completely dadaist exercise.i let loose the brain on the footage,it let out a string.8 days of juggling.after 4 months of it growing potato ears without a touch.i couldn't be bothered with focussing.
it's like a relationship,a break up,i could pick up the pieces only once i had stopped feeling the nausea.i could let you go,only after compulsively simulating the departure in my mind.again and again and again..

a friend and i were laughing...
film making has become like eating paan with tobacco for me.
i must remember
bite.don't swallow.chew.spit.
DON'T swallow.

it rained here.
nana and i ran out into it and lay on the grass.
beautiful beautiful life.

this is my grandfather.
he was in the Royal Navy and later was the operations manager for BOAC(British Overseas Airways Corporation),now called British Airways,in the 50s in London.he had 6 children.it is because of him i grew up listening to LPs of the Beatles,the Ventures,the Carpenters,the Doors before i was 3.he settled in Kerala in the rubber plantation his father never wanted him to leave in the first place.
he paid me to draw for him.he paid me for every rubber sheet i touched,when he counted them out every evening in the plantation.he sent me 500 rupees by money order on every birthday.he sent me telegrams in engineering college.
.
.
this is him drinking tea the last time i saw him.

'by hook or by crook,i hope that you will possess yourselves of money enough to travel and to idle,to contemplate the future or the past of the world,to dream over books and loiter at street corners and let the line of thought dip deep into the stream.'
virginia woolf,1929.

i sleep badly:calamities,tones of voice and gestures march past.

on a more serious note,have you noticed how it doesn't quite look like you've got the bed out of your eyes if you don't wash you hair when you bathe?

the poetry is in the timing.
in the timing of your moves,in the words you say,in how much you consider the other.

you dived in,like only you could have.
you turned around.i saw you drive away into the distance and then you paused and came back.
i remember watching you sleep in the grey empty halls.
.
.
.
the first time you were there ,was also the first time i saw your toes.i'd never seen your toes before.hospital sheets make bodies look delicate.white grey sheets.
i remember getting your papers copied,i remember keeping a tab of the counts.i learnt to cook.
i remember talking to myself all the time while riding to where you were.i learnt to ride the bike.
i started it off one night.i have a license now.
i remember your mother's voice.
i remember following the ambulance to the ward on the bike.
i remember the looks on your friend's faces.every time they were different.
you always wanted a pastry.
i remember riding behind you in the rain six hours straight.we went through green fields.the sky was grey.i watched out for sandy's blue shirt.
i remember watching out for lights.sandy's bike had no lights.
i remember the staircases we hid in.
the scooter kept us talking to each other.
i remember being the coward and you being the hero.
i let you go.
.
.
i could see the colour because you were grey.

so funny.
david shrigley's links are on the other blog.pls see!

walking around in the streets,looking for... something?quelquechosequelquechose...
.
.
you feel in the dark for the corners which gave you succor,those familiar spots which had somehow embalmed the splintered thoughts at another time maybe,the curve of a known body,the light of a space where you could get coffee maybe?the last time the coffee and lamp light had mixed and left you with fuzzy vision. soothing.
but no,it's not happening this time.
sometimes it doesn't work.sometimes nothing works.when you find yourself flailing in the streets after one of these failed attempts,that's when it happens.
momentarily,the idea of your walking lost on the street works itself out into its physical form quite literally.the mental and physical pictures meet.always scary.
hell,this is real life.your real life.
.
.
.
.
for now we'll sit by these words,these words here awaiting evaporation.

i think i've finally been successful in killing all excess word.words.and in the working life.in reality.the living world.the rough and tumble and travel and roll.
i am free



:)
bring it on.

today i woke up in the morning with a strange feeling of loss.
i got up and checked to see if the milk was alright,...if the paper had come in.the milk was alright,the paper hadn't come in.i put on some coffee to boil. and then stopped in the living room and looked at the floor.what had happened ?was there something i was missing?had i lost something,was there something i was supposed to be worried about that i'd forgotten about?then it came back.i'd let you go.there was no you. the music was out.
that's all.

for the pirates around here who've come to my notice of late

.
.
..
you could take my words,but isn't it time to start worrying about the lack of yours,me hearties?

the film lives on in your head because it reached its end.
my fairy godfather once told me films are unlike people,you can hold on to them ,see?
.
.

i float in and from one film to another.michel poiccard breathes for me.
sometimes i walk out of films if i'm enjoying it too much.the film has already ended in the mind.i pick at my lot of sensations and take my time to savor them before they start fading into the background with the other sounds.michel poiccard breathes.he has in him what i foresaw in all those who past through my life.i was just waiting for the michel who decided to stop the running,because i had decided to stop a long time ago too.
.
.

.
.
.
.
.
.. the michels in my life?,........they figured it too late. the film had ended.i believe one doesn't really leave the people one loves. and when one does,the love has changed into something else.it is energy. if it doesn't change into something else and stays at the same intensity,flickering uncertainly in the corridors between two rooms,there's no way anyone else gets any of it. when love doesn't go to the place it wants to go to it starts decaying the body it lives in.life looks bleak. nothing is pretty.i make films because i love life.i am 25 and have only just found respect for my toes.there is much to see.
they were just too late.

khepa

I don’t believe the idea is about making everyone see the same light. I got that some time back,.. there is no cumulative,absolute truth. there is just my truth and the truth I choose to see of the people around me . I needn’t try to convince anyone about the rich colour and brilliant texture of my truth. I must just sit and observe the truth in other people.

i'd just finished one month of scriptwriting.it involved weeks of writing,long hours of writhing in agony,of being an absolute vegetable,of not being able to quite communicate at all.just because i'd decided to take an absurd set of rules seriously. now i'd spent a lifetime questioning rules,see?and i think i was just waiting for someone to present me with a mad set of them so i could allow myself to accept them as law.just to see how far i could let myself loose in their constraints.the more absurd they got,the more i relished my discomfort.i was my only enemy.i hurled myself in headlong.i trusted completely.there's no fear when you get like that,it's a lot like being in love.
.
.
.
by the end of the first week i was left with only sensations.basic stimuli. i was aware of feeling.i knew i could see,i knew i felt. there was no more use of the read word. it was the edge.this was the moment,no pillars to hide behind,this is where i got to see how the juice flowed for me.time to check the inclination of the slope,which way would the water flow ?would the water rise up, would i float?i figured,either i’d manage to get things across or i’d forever go down quiet,bubbling out of sight into ambiguity.isn't it what we do in real life as well?try striking a balance between a world of silence to that of words and fro again. i knew if I didn’t let my character grope its way out into the white tubelit room and onto that white table top,it wouldn’t have gotten the closure it needed. You see,it had been trying for quite some time.I'd just not known.

this is an ode to film.to what it has come to be in my life.to the fluidity it has granted to so much i had no words for earlier.it lives and breathes for me. it is unlike the piano i used to play,the guitar that nibbled at my fingers,it was nothing i had to pick up,it just wafted into my being.just like that.i was a believer.my life is a roll of married print.

when i leave you,i write.
i must then be writing when i have killed all hope.
when i have hope i stand still,i don't twitch,i breathe it in,i bite into the wine,i leave it out to breathe.
our dialogue is space,the playground has no horizons.
run.run faster.
because i am.

my hair has grown longer since you have been around.

we sat and wondered at the cycles in our lives again,she wondered why the story took the same turns,no matter which the face was.i echoed it in my head,and then it was clear,it was something till yet unlearnt in ourselves we were searching for. i scoured for the answer in the spirit of the other,and maybe was wrong in doing so.the search must be just within.
.
.
i knew this at one time long ago.i'd forgotten again.
damn.





in the meantime i will laugh.just like i used to.

nausea

life seems to be passing by like tonight.
me coming back tired,breathing slightly heavy,a light sheath of sweat,the street a haze,a dog in the corner,i sing softly,walking back to a house i know is the only thing waiting just a short distance away.
petals for the pools of water tonight.just them.

your carbon dioxide is addictive.
June 30,2008


to which the monkey said..

olfactory epithelium ki aisi ki taisi!!
July 1,2008

from the time i was stuck in the mire...
one of them,i mean..harHar!


I sit here wondering about where I am headed
There seems to be a path in front of me.
Only I keep getting stuck.
Stuck on yes,mostly you
Or what I’m wishing you’d be

These little notes I write to you.they seem absurd to me mostly because I wont talk about them to anyone
I get high on just beginning to imagine the beginnings of a life
You me and here, slow dancing in a burning room
Probably an ideal can live through to only one level
The song has stayed for days though
It doesn’t change
What does change is what I mean
Everyday it changes
I thought about it yesterday

February 27,2007

À bout de souffle

frantic pace. i am happy.there is nothing i want. what i want rests in my hands,i just have to reach out and clutch it. breathlessly sitting down to plan. it seems to be the only way, wait for the 2-3 days of absolute peace you get to figure how to get through the rest of the days,weigh out your emotions out for real now that you can see them.

a character needs to be born
she needs to come out soon
she needs a lead
she needs a face
I need to have her ready

blank words blank faces
still life doesn’t think it needs a break
I could go on forever

now

religion,faith are all just philosophy.
philosophy one incorporates, because one might not have the energy to make one's own.there's safety in numbers, and the texts and power structures are already in place. pick and choose the rituals or hell,be mercenary and follow them all.
.
.
when you're stuck accidently with devising your own philosophy though,...it's just too late to do anything else...
and then,well,you can stare at the others longingly from your perch midflight.because the references are lost on you.

i don't know if you will come.i don't know if i care really.

the fingers react to the stimuli spontaneously.my head is too tired to react.
i have learnt to stop.i have stopped being reactionary.
i seem to be able to make out where it is exactly i prostitute myself.
i look at people and flinch back,it is obvious,it is on the surface.the mystery is lost.

every day turns around with the same events.you start one way,I end another.
i leave you and take you back in, twice in the span of a single day.
maybe i open the door now to you just out curiosity...what will it be today,you monster?
are you in or are you out?or do you want to hide under my bed?
let's drink to this drunken haze.let the songs never end. you can base your interactions with me on the basis of where you score from.
let the peddlers be the dictators in your life then,you coward.
i'll reposition the lights.

from when

"
Friday,
February 03, 2006

the city again..
where are the people?
sitting in the recesses i keep jamming them into probably.
hari kunzru it was for the train...something abt the changing face,many skins...leap frogging years,...oddly familiar

there's another form under the blanket,thankfully this isn't my house...this is someone else's nightmare ..

how many times have I thought it was you finally.you.you from the open void.in flesh and blood. through all of my diaries...flashes of you ,speckles of blood on the walls after the onslaught,misting the mirrors,it was you ...you making me smile in the mornings,you i wanted to see ,a face to the thought in the sepia tinted jaundiced evenings,it was you i was screaming at on the terrace all those nights,to you i showed those words scrawled out in those endless pages...where are you then. ? . i don't have much else left. just this energy,this energy i have to travel miles to regain.this will to exist. survival taking precedence. again. you, disappearing from the face i thought you owned into the abyss of my memories and haunting me through the city.
you are.
but where?

"

Wednesday,
June 04,2008,

for the record,the person who this was written for came back from his explorations of the outer universe,2 years later.we go for long rides,have been unlearning together,have gotten drunk and silly.He gave and then gave some more.He got me a dog.
He came back.
and then?

this is stuff from some published writing from long ago.when things were stuck in a different set of words!

sunday,
may 21,2006.


today...

there's this feeling of utter freedom...
of endless possibility...
of never ending skies ,
of wide open plains....
of soft whispery sand...
of yielding grass,
of warm sunsets,
of undying love..
of peace
of un knit eyebrows ,
of loud laughter,
of sunlit spots in smoky wooden cabins on mountain sides..
of arms thrown wide to the wind...
of the wind blowing through my hair...
of me running and running and not getting tired....
of love,and fitting into another life form,
for it to exist to let me fit in..
this feeling of butterflies let loose over a sea of white daisies and a tungsten tinted overcast sky,the trees bluer,the grass greener...the sky purplish gray....
of horses and
water...

yum.

the story of my life.
blech..

I do not love you except because I love you

I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda


more of my muse..

an ode to the almost there
the almost together
to the people who slipped and slid their way through whatever they had the patience to see in my head
writing to all of them,whilst i stand at the very brink of what could be a new way at looking at life.

this one's for that feeling you have at times with those particular people. somewhere at the back of your head, you have convinced yourself about their being somehow crucial to every day living,that little bunch of people you'd actually get out of bed for,take the call of,stop in your tracks for,shift over a mood for,the people you can count out on your fingers every time you're shuffling through all the contacts in your phonebook,i mean.. this is for all the times you've pushed the limit so far that they can only gape at you from the distances you've placed them at unquestioning.you've also pushed the limit because you know you can.it's the age old story.why is it then that when they try to play the game (and this is usually after weeks of silent hurting),you snap?
.
.
oh hell,i can't pin this ghost down yet.
later then,you.

'The Last Resort',Maradu,Cochin,Kerala.

from home then...

plafond plafond plancher

'she lay on the cot.ceiling ceiling ceiling.she turned over.floor floor floor.she got up and,like a vacuum cleaner with insomnia,roamed the room some more.for three days,she did such things.perhaps she was coming to terms with the space,although surely she realised that space is merely a device to prevent everything from being in the same spot.'

Tom Robbins,'Still Life with Woodpecker'.

this post and all posts following are meant to weaken the tongue which can now seemingly not speak or write anything which doesn't sound more than just a little melancholic.

down with all of it.enough.
if i have to spit it out,regurgitate and spit it out all out again,i want to be done with it. and then i won't spit. i won't let it collect anymore,see?


this is for the god out there,who saw me through eight months of silence.
i will never forget the sound of that particular quality of silence.
or the sun beams passing past the colonial arches those englishmen left behind,even in that little town in kerala. me and my blessed books sprawled in the corridors in the scratchy sun patches. on the floor of abandoned convents.
i will never forget the squeal of the pigs at the monastery as they were led back every evening.
or the sickly sweet flowers strewn on the floor of the pathway behind the monastery.they'll always remind me of papers to be written.a sense of urgency.of guilt.numbers.escape.

we tend towards more ambiguity.
i take a breather,sit down in the dark heat in a corridor. she stares at the brick wall in front of me. The text my eyes glanced over during the day takes shape ,brings out colour,moves from crisp type to fumigating pollen spraying human forms. i reach out for the device. an out of breath voice echoes from it.all else is silent.we laugh in the stillness. hollow laughs. my head starts thinking again,wills the unsure voice to stop ringing through the corridors,pleads it to stop.i kill the dialogue. bring in the silence again,it stares at me,voluptuous,purple,heaving in time with the heat.

silver bangle

short gasps.
around the bend,over the hill,behind the boulder
you were up there and i knew it.i could feel it.
you were there and i could do nothing but be in the vicinity.
i waited.
you didn't come down.
i marveled.

the 'me'

sobbing.
and.
watching your face
to see if you're holding up
to all that i have to belt out.
can you see?
it isn't about ending up with a fistful of air
it's about watching you go through the routine
and hoping
that you can see what i saw
but you mustn't feel for it
because you needn't.
it hurt,see?

(laughs)

'go fall in love.
go find someone you can be yourself with'
'(laughs)...but that's just the point.i've made friends with the quiet.quiet is the new loud.it's exactly what everyone seems to be running away from these days.i've gotten scarier....(laughs).so then?...'
'go.then you'll choose better things to make a film on'
'yea?and then what? i'll spread the fears and the dreams out for drying and sit back comfortably in my cottage?this is anything but a mate call.sure i want the cottage.but the dream will have to wait.I've already bought the door knob for the front door.it's a wrought iron star fish.
don't tell me to go fall in love.'

what would you do if i sang out of tune

we'll carry on then
in this unworded cloud
no we won't state anything
we'll laugh and dance
we'll stare at each other in the eye if we ever do manage to sit a yard away
the yard is important.
that's when we'll hold the stare
we'll blink
we'll keep looking
till then
you can pass me by
and i'll let you
time won't stop
we'll become the walking dead
you will be a breathing memory laughing for real in front of me
and i will marvel at having the same questions
every bloody time.

breathe.
the words fade away further

off the grid.

one small step
i'll cover you
just step over the edge and on to the parapet
one step around the pillar
i'll cover you,it's just the one step around the pillar
don't look down
i'm here
you're covered.

old old

'
We make ourselves a place apart

Behind light words that tease and flout,

But oh, the agitated heart

Till someone really find us out.



'Tis pity if the case require

(Or so we say) that in the end

We speak the literal to inspire

The understanding of a friend.



But so with all, from babes that play

At hide-and-seek to God afar,

So all who hide too well away

Must speak and tell us where they are.

'
Robert Frost

'
And yet the last look of them he stepping from the kerb and she following him round the edge of the big building brims me with wonder floods me anew. Mysterious figures! Mother and son. Who are you? Why do you walk down the street? Where to-night will you sleep, and then, to-morrow? Oh, how it whirls and surges floats me afresh! I start after them. People drive this way and that. The white light splutters and pours. Plate-glass windows. Carnations; chrysanthemums. Ivy in dark gardens. Milk carts at the door. Wherever I go, mysterious figures, I see you, turning the corner, mothers and sons; you, you, you. I hasten, I follow. This, I fancy, must be the sea. Grey is the landscape; dim as ashes; the water murmurs and moves. If I fall on my knees, if I go through the ritual, the ancient antics, it's you, unknown figures, you I adore; if I open my arms, it's you I embrace, you I draw to me adorable world!

'

(Virginia Woolf
'a room of one's own',1929)

,

'
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
'

ogden nash

when kg messaged..

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing direction. You change direction, but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulvirized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.
And you really will have to make it through that violent, metaphysical, symbolic storm. No matter how metaphysical or symbolic it might be, make no mistake about it: it will cut through flesh like a thousand razor blades. People will bleed there, and you will bleed too. Hot, red blood. You'll catch that blood in your hands, your own blood and the blood of others.
And once the storm is over you won't remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won't even be sure, in fact, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm you won't be the same person who walked in. That's what this storm is all about."

conversing in the dark

turn off the radio
yes,shut it off
shut it off so i can think
what do you mean there's nothing wrong?
tell me,why won't you tell me how i didn't see this earlier
when did we swing into this sludge
again ?
what happened to you and i sitting around each other just a week ago.
just sitting around.
waiting,
with one hour for the bus to go.

.
.
where did you go?
no.
no we can't see each other again
the memories don't heal you see
the memories only grow
they'll resurface because i live
because you live
please turn off the radio,this can't have ended.

math

'
if direction is a look,montage is a heartbeat.To foresee is the characteristic of both : but what one seeks to foresee in space, the other seeks in time. Suppose you notice a young girl in the street who attracts you.You hesitate to follow her. A quarter of a second.How to convey this hesitation? Mise en scène will answer the question 'How shall I approach her?' But in order to render explicit the other question,'Am I going to love her?',you are forced to bestow importance on the quarter of a second during which the two questions are born.
....When montage effects surpass those of mise en scènein effacacity,the beauty of the latter is doubled,the unforseen unveiling secrets by its charm in an operation analogous to using unknown quantities in mathematics.

'
(H.L.
'Montage my fine care',Cahiers du Cinéma 65,December 1956)

i'm the common cold

...
step back
stay away
be disjointed
no,don't speak in complete sentences
step back,i tell you and look at me
i wake up every morning and stare for an hour.at a bottle,at the window,at a lizard,at my toes.
i wake up every morning very early
i'm one of those.
no,i don't do yoga
no,i don't jog,.
no i start thinking about the running,and then that's it...
i picturise myself running purposefully in the football field,round and round the perimeter and want to sit down on the road and laugh.
running is absurd.
no,i'm fine,i don't need the pillow,do you mind if i stay for awhile?
no,nothing happened,just restless as usual
i saw a bat on the way here
left wing kite string injury
i took the sock off from his head and looked at him
he looked at me too
we're retards for bats.
no point in trying to communicate
we can't hear them
so .he just stared at me.
i stared back
his wing looked messy
goddamn kite strings.
..
no,i haven't had dinner,not hungry
hmmm...
could you pass the lighter?
.
.
(to be continued)

milann très john...lol

'
michelle,ma belle,
sont les mots qui vont très bien ensemble
très bien ensemble

'
(The Beatles,Rubber Soul,1966)

she

we have no war. aside from ourselves,our own faces,our own voices...we have nothing.but maybe it's important to recognize the sound of your own voice...and the shape of your own face.
on the inside,it's like this(she looks towards the mirror) ,and when i look at it,it's like this(she looks at you).

this is

this is for flitting by my life
this is for letting me sit wordless
this is for meeting my monsters in the quiet
this for getting hurt by them in the silence
this is for running away before i could get you to talk about the music

where the sidewalk ends..

from what i heard yesterday..
'..because there is no love.this is how a community works.convenience takes precedence.'

and i look back at hans lucas ..
'..Such is the nature of dialectic in the cinema : one must live rather than last.It is pointless to kill one's feelings in order to live longer.We have indeed forgotten how to see : a sudden start of the shoulders means only fear,a wrinkling of the nose means only anger,when one is less anxious to grasp the action in its convultions than in its exposition.

..with old thoughts let us make new verses'

...'But what vanity,too,to insist at all costs on crediting language with a certain metaphysical quality.when it could only raise to the level of the sublime in very special circumstances.'
H.L.

jean luc

'It has been said aready:

In the crossways of kisses
The years pass too quickly

and life is rather like dancing.'
(H.L.)
(Jean Luc Godard,
La ronde,Gazette du cinéma 4,October 1950)


from the writings of Lous Aragon:
Méfie-toi Jessica
Au biseau des baisers
Les ans passent trop vite
Evite, évite, évite
Les souvenirs brisés.

my attempt at a literal translation follows,keeping it literal so you can make of it as you will...lol..long live the open end!

I distrust you Jessica
In the crossways of kisses
the years pass too quickly
avoids,avoids,avoids
the broken memories

'

In English, the apostrophe has two main functions: it marks omissions, and it assists in marking the possessives of all nouns and many pronouns.

borges..and godard

'there once was a man who wanted to create a world:so he began by creating houses,provinces,valleys,rivers,tools,fish,lovers etc. and at the end of his life,he noticed that this patiently elaborated labyrinth was nothing other than his own portrait'.
bummer.

the day after

it's one of those days.
the day which follows the day of utterly unbearable restlessness, you wish for the impossible, you sit for hours staring at the words in books you have loved, till you wrench yourself away from even them so you don't do them any harm. people are out of the question. it takes nothing to scare them. you see,.. these monsters have no tragic roots.
these monsters just simply are.
it's the day after one of those days when you don't know what to do with your hands, you feel your sleeves are too short, the shoes are too tight, the lips are too chapped, the music is not right.
yesterday the only thing right was the weather. Because it was the only real thing around.
yesterday the Beatles couldn't do me any good.
yesterday i struggled to be pleasant to all the people who had come and gone leaving a trail of violet dust in their wake
yesterday i wondered if i cared for anything really
yesterday i wondered at the restlessness, i wondered at its doing away with my sleep
yesterday i wondered about all the words stuck in my head with no place to go
yesterday i wondered about patience, and growing trees and families and children and traveling and ovarian in-growths
yesterday i wondered about staring at my ceiling fan through those days of fever, and then shifting to stare at the mosaic floor, le plancher et le plafond, le plafond et puis le plancher
yesterday i wondered at all the paracetamol i popped in so i could get moving again
yesterday i wondered at getting myself taken to the hospital because i couldn't handle my head any longer
yesterday i wondered at hearing from someone that soaring blood pressures also came of eating too much paracetamol
too much paracetamol.
was that what it feels like then ..to have too much paracetamol?
yesterday i wondered at my bag with its paracetamols
yesterday i wondered about how much more i had to travel to put this head at rest
yesterday i realised i wouldn't travel ever if this head were at rest
yesterday i realised i wouldn't pick up a book to read if this head were at rest
yesterday i realised it is this unrest that keeps me going