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.