Stuff

Being,Writing, Hollowness and the Zen of it…

2011-12-09T20:14:00.001+05:30

Long silences and lonelypauses have kept me constant company these last many weeks. It has been oversixty days since I wrote anything worth reading, or experiencing. This is not“writer’s block”, not existential angst, creative bankruptcy or any form ofeuphoria that usually fells the writing muse. I haven’t written anythingbecause I choose not to write, I choose to imprison the words, and make themstruggle for survival.

Every long silence and lonelypause bears witness to the death of a part of me, there was a time I used tomourn that but that faculty has died too. The inessential falls by the wayside,leaving nothing but a hollowness bound by a shell of what was once essential.

There is a story I once readabout a group of Zen students exploring the area around the monastery chancingon an ancient cast iron bell and remarking on its beauty and craftsmanship,when a monk emerged from his home to ring the bell, they commented on the workmanshipand in conversation with him asked him how old the bell was. The monk placedhis hand on the metal engravings and told them it was over five hundred yearsold and then he points to the void in the bell and said the emptiness withinwas eternal. The monk proceeds to ring the bell and once its sound had fadedasked the students where the sound came from- whether it was from the metalcasing or from the emptiness inside.

When I began this venture ofwriting one original piece a month, it was with the intent of accomplishing twothings, not directly related to the craft of writing, the first was tocultivate discipline and be able to write on cue irrespective of thecircumstances surrounding me, essentially an exercise in relentlessness. Thesecond was to learn to sustain the focus and energy on a project, this is mythird blog and it’s also the one that’s been up the longest and has the mostnumber of subscribers and people viewing it. Did I meet these objectives? Idid, most of the time and definitely in spirit. Is this enough? Not anymore.

Over the last two years, Ihave used this platform to experiment with new styles, different writingvoices, and ideas I found novel. But I always constrained myself to theconstruct of the short story, largely because there was a time when I thoughtwords were cheap and treated them as such. Authoring a short story helps youunderstand the value of each word especially when you aspire to speak yourpiece in a thousand words or less. This two year experiment has helped me be abit braver about the kind of writing I want to do, the voice of caution andnegativity which hounds me every time I write is a bit more muted and I findmyself being able to look at the kind of writing I have done and be extremelydissatisfied. The only thing that sates me is that the stories I have authoredhave potential for being something more and I find myself wishing I couldre-write them in a way that uses some more of that potential.

The story of the bell and theZen students appealed to me because I have been wondering about the quality ofmy writing and the originality of my writing voice. Every time I read anythingI find myself drawn to the experience that a writer shares with the world andthe best stories I have read made the writer’s imagination a large part of thatexperience. Imagination is like that void, the space that’s trapped in thebell- the nothingness that intersects with the real to produce the experiencethat continues to exist in the ether of nothing. My biggest complaint with mywriting is that I did not assert my imagination in a bolder way. In the contextof the story of the bell this has led to my writer’s voice sounding like a lotof dull clanging and not enough chiming. That I am able to tell the differencebetween the two leads me to hope that I have evolved some sense of discernment.

The hollowing out continuesand I am loathed to publish anything till I am satisfied it’s reflective of thenew voice that’s emerging in this process. I am ending this project in creativeproductivity; it has achieved more than it was intended to.

Poems which have played on inthe background as my thoughts rambled to this realization-

Trappings

The illusion of travel

The illusion of change

The illusion of evolution

How easily we get busy

How easily we confuseourselves

With the temporary

Identifying with thetrappings

With nature’s lovely recipes

For form and space

Forgetting our eternity

Its always a joy when you find inspiration in another human being and when you are able to relate to the emotional process of a shared ambition- in my case to be a better story teller. Sarah Kay is someone I am always amazed by simply because I find my self wanting to be as bold and courageous with my story voice.

Sarah Kay: How many lives can you live?

Alpha Mike Foxtrot.

Truism #4

2011-09-07T20:29:00.000+05:30

You never lose the people you get lost with, not really.

De Papa

2011-08-26T15:30:00.001+05:30

We met before you were born,
I knew who you were right away,
How could I not?
You were of my own flesh.

These words sprout fevered and prophetic,
In dream and memory is where we met,
You don’t yet exist, not in the real world,
You haven’t been born yet, not in the real world.

The first vision was of you as a bloodied infant
That lasted for a whisper of a moment and
As I gazed on, you grew and grew till you
A child of three and me thirty something met.

You had just woken from your slumber,
You were looking for a drink of water,
You had a story to tell me and a hug to give
You were looking for me, your father.

Pride, fear and awe are what I remember,
Washing over me like a flood of electric anticipation,
Your intelligence overawed, your insight cut cold,
Your vulnerability made your papa protective.

We parted as I tucked you in, kiss on forehead,
Dimmed the lights in your room and
Stared at you from the door till you fell asleep,
I fought my deepest urge to stay and walked away.

I wept quietly when I woke from this fever dream,
The lonely dark, the darkest dark, the one before dawn,
Was what greeted me, the real world with its unreality,
My fever broken and tears dry; exhausted I slept again.

We met before you were born,
I knew who you were right away,
How could I not?
Till we meet again my sweet.

Personnage Croquis- "Poon"

2011-06-09T21:19:00.001+05:30

Poon is the kind of girl that reads well on paper, her vital statistics would tell you that she’s 5’10, has long legs, dark hair and that she’s filled out appropriately in all the right places. They won’t however tell you that she has a penchant for designer high heels and expensive lingerie, or that she volunteers when she can at a soup kitchen. I know this because I know Poon.

We first met years ago when I was a copy editor at a fashion house in Milan, it was at one of those furious after-parties, during fashion week that the industry is notorious for hosting. Her height, angular face and smoke cracked voice made Poon hard to miss. It was one of those first encounters that life packs with enough memories to last a lifetime. The night’s events began with harmless flirtation, spilled on to a Poon inspired brawl, an illegal pig-fight, an unguided tour of a wax museum and had ended in Poon’s fashionable one room, closet like apartment.

These memories flash through me as I find myself looking for the dingy poetry club we decided to meet at when she called me out of the blue two nights ago. It looks like a shady speakeasy from the 20’s on the outside and is stuffed to the brim with people decked in designer doo-dads. Apt, I can’t imagine meeting her anywhere else. I squeeze my way through to a largish man with a clip board manning the narrow entrance and tell him I have a reservation, he shoots me a quizzical glance and bellows- “Name?”, I pause for a second while I regain my lost footing and mumble “…Poon”; “say what?” he bellowed with a slight hint of irritation and I say “Poon… do you want me to spell it?”, he scowls down at his clipboard and his face relaxes as he finds her name on his list, “She’s in there already, go on through”, I thank him as I slide past the annoying fat man next to me blocking a third of the entrance with his protruding belly.

The inside of the club is massive, the ceiling is three storeys high and the floor is littered with flimsy furniture, the kind that’s commonly used in roadside Parisian bistros. It’s dingy and a man on the stage is letting the audience know that the next poet will be up in ten minutes and that they should order drinks in the meanwhile. I find her sitting in a quiet wooden booth, one of many that line the side of the space near the stage, her long legs crossed stylishly and sticking out of the booth, smoking a long, slim cigarette and playing around with a tissue on her table. I make my way through the tiny tables to the booth and wave out to her. She grins broadly and hugs me the way excited school girls do and she drags me into the booth- “You still drink Manhattans right?” and before I can respond she flags down a passing waitress and orders a repeat martini for herself and a Manhattan for me.

We spend the first minute staring at each other in silence, she still had the pixie sparkle in her eyes but she looked more tired now. She sizes me up and tells me she hates me for how good I look right now, I find myself blushing beet and remember that she could always make me blush like that. We start making small talk about our lives, and remark at the similar place we find our lives in, not dating anyone, still tramping about fashion week after-parties when we could, and both of us had moved around a bit. The conversation goes quiet again, the silence weighed heavy and the two years we hadn’t met, made itself felt in the booth. The waitress steps in with our drinks and a poet is introduced on stage, Poon plays with the olives in her glass while I stare at the bald man on stage reading out his poetry.

The piece complete and the audience quiet, the poet starts talking about his politics and beliefs. I turn back to Poon, she is lighting up another cigarette; I ask her why she quit modelling, she grows quiet and stirs her drink - “It stopped being fun…” she exhales smoke and taps the cigarette into the ashtray “ the bullshit got to me- the bitchiness, the asshole photographers, the egomaniacal designers… the whole thing got to me. It was wearing me out…” I stared at her for a while and I told her I didn’t believe her. This made her sullen and she started stirring her drink again “Ok, fine- I screwed up- you remember Johanus?” I nod as I remembered Mark Johanus, a hot shot Austrian designer and his melodramatic tantrums- “I do… what about him?” Poon stubs out her cigarette- “Well I was dating him for about a year- like seriously, and the whole thing was secret. I didn’t want the other girls to know… you know how bitchy they get…anyway so we did this whole secret thing for a year… he was nice, I think he was serious and saw it going somewhere…” she trailed off and paused to light another cigarette “He said something about getting married and I laughed at the idea- it turned out he was attempting to propose- He had the ring and everything…anyway… so he said he was serious, shows me this massive diamond ring and said that we should do it that day… well… as you can imagine I freaked out and told him he was crazy that we should talk about this…. Well maybe it wasn’t as gentle as that but that’s the gist of what I said”. A lump forms in my throat and I drink my Manhattan to ease it.

The rejection had its consequences Poon was mysteriously dropped as lead model two weeks before the show, she said something about another fight and how she stormed out of the show on the day. She had packed up her stuff and gone home, her family was concerned at first- “we didn’t really talk or anything, just stuff like “pass the salt”, it was nice to have mama’s food and sleep in my old room but that lasted a couple of weeks and then the questions started, where I was, what I had been up to, why I never called…how they were ashamed… that got to me and I left again”. Poon was seventeen when she ran away from home the first time she left, swearing never to return, and now she had done it again. She stopped talking and stared hard at me- “I don’t like talking about that… fuck this. Do you want another one?” I nodded and she ordered us another round of drinks. The room was filled with applause, the poet had finished talking or performing, I didn’t know and that point I didn’t care. I asked her what she did after she left, she reached for another cigarette but she was out- “ah fuck, just when I need it… do you have any?” I shook my head and tried to get the waitress’ attention to see if she could get us any, but before I could, a swarthy man in the table across from our booth walked up to us and offered Poon a cigarette, she smiled at him wickedly, as she accepted. He introduced himself as Dominic and started talking about how he noticed her from afar and was working up the nerve to speak with her, Poon listened for a bit and nodded politely- “Thanks for the smoke… I was in the middle of a conversation”, Dominic muttered an apology and looked deflated but he walked back to his table with a victorious swagger.

Poon started telling me about her life after modelling, she had travelled around Europe for a bit, living on couches, she managed to land the occasional small modelling jobs wherever she was and that money helped tide her over for a bit. She did this for a year before she ran out of places she could stay in and people she could impose on. Poon was staying with a girl, she used to model with earlier, in Monte Carlo, when she got set up with a job being a casino hostess, the pay was good and the casino let her stay in one of their suites and paid for expenses. She did this for about eight months, but got sick of the old men and needing to be on her guard constantly- the final decision to leave came when someone thought she was a hooker- “I wanted to tell that fat bastard to go fuck himself, but Id learned enough by then, so I kept smiling and told him I wasn’t into that kind of thing and that he needed to go talk to the manager…. I knew what the manager was going to tell me after…. but decided this was enough anyway and I had saved enough money to live well for a few months… so I packed up and left… Nadia was pissed because she got me the job… but she came around later”. Poon then moved to the US and found a job with an event management company, the money wasn’t as glamorous but it was enough to live comfortably and the job kept her travelling so she didn’t really spend enough time in anyone place to make friends and kept to herself at work, there was the occasional lover but nothing serious or real.

Poon sounded uncharacteristically bitter as she finished talking, but that went away by the time our next round of drinks arrived and her eyes lit up again. We spoke about where I had been, my temporary switch over to “serious journalism”, the time I had spent in SE Asia trying to write my Pulitzer worthy story and about how spent I was with the whole experience before I decided to move back to NY.

We talked about the night we first met, the idiotic brawl those two Italian studs had over who was going to buy her the next round, the crazy pig fight, how we broke into to wax museum to get away from the police who raided the place and about how we spent the whole night talking in her one bed closet like room. We laughed till our sides hurt and our eyes began to tear up… for a minute Poon looked like how she did the first night I met her.

It was late by the time we left the club and we were headed in opposite directions, Poon gives me a tight hug and it felt like she didn’t want to let go- “hey… it felt soooo good to see you… lets talk more often ok?”, I promised her we would and she slid into her waiting taxi. I wave at the taxi as it pulls away and start walking, the basking warmth of our meeting making me smile. But as I walked on, a sickening realisation crept up on me- I didn’t know when I would see her again and I pulled my jacket closer around me. The night felt a bit colder than it was.

Truism #3

2011-05-26T23:42:00.000+05:30

You snap out of it one day and find yourself masturbating to a twenty year old porn movie at Three AM.

The only truth your soul will allow you to see then is, that you are alone.

All alone.

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

Enlightenment is free.

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Hafeem haze

2011-04-15T15:36:00.001+05:30

We spoke of dreams you and I,
Dreams induced by that narcotic high.

When we, that's you and I, became one,
That hafeem haze cleared to reveal-
Tree lines that felt like ocean waves,
Stars that looked like Gogh’s exploding orbs,
Wispy clouds, which made quiet whooshing sounds.

The blurred people faces that all looked alike,
Asked me in a single voice what it felt like

Like a dream said I-
A dream where I am also the dream,
A dream I couldn't tell the beginning or end of,
A dream where the dream wondered,
What I am like when not in this narcotic shroud.

Pour une fille vraiment comme I

2011-04-10T21:15:00.000+05:30

In a wild patch of garden tended by none,
A cocoa hued Orchid sought the sun,
Rare but lone, wildness and beauty it goads,
Fit for princes but surrounded by toads.

Weep not for even in being you are desired,
Weep not for even in being you are prized,

Weep not for even in being you are.

Personnage Croquis- "Chotta"

2011-03-02T20:48:00.000+05:30

Chotta is a difficult man to miss, he is spectacularly bald, stone faced and is almost always attired in indigo coloured jeans, monochromatic custom sneakers, a shirt with pinkish hues and, the soon to be iconic, Nehru jacket. As we greet each other and sit down for our meeting it is difficult to ignore the feeling that Chotta is seated in the eye of a storm of nervous energy. While his aura exudes an eerie calm that seems almost entirely contained within him, the energy around our table is positively frenetic.

The lone waiter at the café, we were meeting at, seemed twitchy and anxious to serve our table much to the chagrin of other patrons at the establishment, the child at the table next to ours tries hard to stifle a wail that’s building up inside of him and an attractive woman in a red shirt is trying hard to stay focused on the book she is reading while stealing glances at our table. The whole setup made me feel like I was sitting in the epicentre of something marvellously bizarre. We place our orders with the eager to serve waiter- I order a cup of earl grey tea and Chotta, his usual- diet coke in a chilled glass topped to the brim with ice, he emphasises the need for ice as he orders.

The order is the same wherever he goes, his clothes are similar and so is his need to have his back to the wall wherever he sits- the need for consistency, I realise, is the unifying theme in the Chotta paradigm. We begin to speak, catching up on the factual aspects of our life, it had been a year since our last meeting and much had changed. We quickly cut through the details and start swapping notes on mutual acquaintances and friends, our drinks arrive and Chotta smiles approvingly at the waiter as he leaves behind a tall glass and a full ice bucket, “Thoughtful chap, we must tip him well before we leave” he says as he gleefully tops his glass with ice.

The clinking of ice and glass, the hiss of opening a chilled can of diet coke and the bubbling hiss of the liquid hitting the ice in the glass seemed to change Chotta and he drinks the first sip with great relish and wave of relief sweeps over him. As I watch this almost ritualistic act, I cant help but notice that the energy around us changes, it loses its anxiety inducing edge, and a wave of calm sweeps over me- I let my guard down and we start talking again.

Chotta describes his aesthetic sensibilities and the influences that helped them evolve -“I seek minimalism and consistency in a visual frame, it doesn’t need to tell a linear story, although I am partial to that; I need to be able to frame that particular moment in reality as simply and efficiently as possible while retaining an other worldliness about it. I sense my style has been influenced by the kind of film, literature and philosophy I was exposed to in my late teens and early twenties- I found myself drawn to pan-asian cinema, deconstructionist, subversive and efficient writing and was pulled to study Zen, Taoism and the monastic practices of various faith systems. The one common thread through all of these was the insatiable need to strip away the inessential- to exist without anything more than what was needed”. The conversation pauses as a noisy gay couple walk into the café, everyone instinctively looks up to see the new entrants, and they go back to what they were doing.

Chotta and I make some small talk about his recent move to Bombay and his efforts at educating himself about Bollywood and its evolving sensibilities, his humility and relentless drive to learn made me feel pompous for feeling so secure in the little I know, he describes his first Bollywood experience-“ I was at a party, a friend invited me to, …surrounded by extremely attractive people and everyone seemed to be there for something more than just the party- I remember being asked what I did for a living and when I said I was a film-maker, ears perked and all attention was on me for the next thirty seconds till I told them I hadn’t yet finished my first project, I was grilled about my industry pedigree and on realising I had no ties, eyes glazed over and I was back where I began a keen observer of happenings around. It was stunning to see how different the backdoor conversations were and how keenly aware of world cinema people seemed to be- it made me feel like I had to get my game up”. Chotta signs to the waiter to get another coke and the bill, he looks at his, authentic looking, knock-off Breitling and apologises that we cant talk any longer than the next twenty minutes. He has an appointment with a screenwriter who may be able to translate his creative vision and he does not want to be late.

We start talking about the future and what his plans are “ I had, when I was younger, a vision for where I would be in ten years but that timeline was entirely unrealistic and impossible to accomplish. I gave myself a hard time for not meeting those objectives as quickly… but over the last year I have realised that sometimes it takes an entire lifetime to accomplish anything that is meaningful or truly reflective of your creative vision in this space and I am giving myself that time to build the right networks, and be influential enough to assert my vision”. When I ask him about commercial cinema and the compromises one needs to make to the creative vision to complete a project, he grows silent and seems lost in thought “I have learnt, painfully, that you don’t get in the real world the reality you see in your head when it comes to making cinema, and good cinema that appeals to a larger audience… it may not necessarily reflect what I think is “awesome” or “good”- The few projects I have been involved in made me realise that compromises become necessary, especially when patience and resources are scarce- the important thing, sometimes, is getting the message across”.

The bill arrives, Chotta pulls out a customised silver money clip which hold a stack of thousand rupee notes- he notices me gawk and smiles at me and only says these words as he pays the bill with exact change “…my life savings”, we hug and he leaves. As I sit down and complete the last few sips of tea in my cup, impressions of the meeting swim around in my head and I am left feeling like someone put out a warm fire and the cold made itself known, there was no yearning for the warmth again just a comfort that I knew what that warmth felt like. I throw in some extra cash for the tip and leave.

The straight and narrow

2010-12-10T19:21:00.000+05:30

The two men sat opposite each other, sharing a pot of coffee in a busy side walk café. They had stopped loving each other years ago, and neither of them knew it at the time but this was the last time they would share a moment as intimate as they were experiencing now; a comfortable silence over a pot of coffee in a crowded side-walk café.

They fell in love with each other on a whim on an idle day, a September many years ago. Simon’s eager eyes and forcefully suppressed manner had appealed to Raj for reasons he couldn’t quite comprehend. A hostile courtship followed that month, and Raj’s delicate subterfuge and manipulation appeared to have broken through Simon’s protestations and moral vicissitudes. Raj’s bashful adolescent bravado had a charm that grew on Simon. Raj had a measured coolness when he proposed that they be more than friends, Simon was preparing for the question but was not ready for it when it came that cold 3 AM morning in a gaudy neon lit café.

Love.
Music.
Soul.
Heaven.
Invincibility.
Perfect.
One year later.

Simon left that cold December to visit family, their first real trial of separation- tears were shed, promises
made, hearts were steeled. Yes they would pine for each other but Simon had not seen his family for a year, Raj understood but couldn’t stop how he felt that way. He told himself to “man up”, not be emotional to take things in his stride, but that did little to allay this burgeoning sense of fear and shame. Fear because he had never felt this weak before, fear because he was afraid Simon might not come back the same, and deep shame because of who he had become- a homo like the ones they show on TV, like the ageing queens he met at parties and swore would never wind up like. He had given his heart to Simon but he could not be trusted, this was Simon’s first time in a relationship, what if he changed his mind, what if he decided he was not gay and Raj was just an experiment? What if? What if? What if? …

The months passed, Simon had returned recharged and eager to slumber in his lover’s arms, but came back to a more distant Raj. He didn’t say anything at first but Raj became more distant as the weeks went by; he refused to engage in any conversation that was more than superficial and became critical if Simon got emotional or sentimental, he could sense a rage and anger which he hadn’t noticed before. Simon and Raj used to luxuriate in each other every time they made love entire afternoons would pass by and it would feel like they had been there only minutes but that was now a twenty minute session after which Raj bathed and slept on the sofa in the living room while pretending to watch television. Simon was frightened of this side of his lover, but too frightened to cry and wildly confused - he felt used and unwanted.

Rape.
Fears.
Tears.
Confessions.
Reconciliation.
Aloof.
Adults.
Another year later.

Raj begged forgiveness and had spent an entire afternoon, weeping, in Simon’s lap, he resolved to never let his pride and paranoia come between them again and for the first time in an entire year had felt light and free. Things were going to be fine; it would be like those first few months when they fell in love. All seemed well in the weeks that followed, but the year of abuse had left Simon bitter and ill tempered. He would over react emotionally and Raj racked by guilt would indulge him his every whim. Simon would say and do things out of spite and test Raj’s affections for him. Raj indulged and yielded ground, he felt emasculated but he still yielded. Raj was becoming like those homo lap-dogs he detested, but he was at fault, amends had to be made and nothing would come between Simon and him again.

Raj grew angrier by the day, and he couldn’t understand why he did, but he did. He hated himself and hated how he began to fear Simon’s moodiness.

An out of town conference.
A two penny prostitute.
Manhood.
Power.
Reclamation.
Twelve months later.

Their relationship was now stagnant; they spent the better parts of their day working and associating with their separate social circles, when they met it was usually for a quiet dinner or for moody sex. Conversation was scant and cordial. Their fights were not as bitter but the venom stayed longer, each eyeing the other for any slip that could be blown out of context.

Each secretly hoping the other would end it.

The two men sat opposite each other, sharing a pot of coffee in a busy side walk café. They had stopped loving each other years ago, neither of them knew it at the time but this was the last time they would share this moment as intimate as they were experiencing now; a shared comfortable silence over a pot of coffee in a crowded side-walk café.

Kiss.
Fast car.
ICU.
Morgue.

The death rattle of an original voice

2010-10-28T11:47:00.000+05:30

Everything feels different, I wake up one morning and it feels like I am living someone else’s life in someone else’s body. The memories of this person, I seem to be possessing, are like hills hiding behind a veil of mist, hazy yet solid. Solid because you believe that hills are solid. The routines this body is used to, feel alien and comfortable; it wakes up at six in the morning and occupies the next twenty minutes cleaning its teeth and washing its face, it gets dressed and goes out to meet another body they exchange greetings and both bodies run.

Its cold but I know this because I imagine it must be cold, not because I feel cold.

Breakfast conversation, the crinkling sound of the newspaper, dropping my brother to his school, the rickshaw driver who gets us there, the ten kilometre ride to the office, crossing the street and entering the gates, being asked to display an identity card, that’s always in the left pocket because the right hand carries a backpack, the thirty meter walk to the building I work in, the familiar electronic beep the precedes the door opening, the cool blast of recycled air, the bare cubicle, a lone, random quote by Carl Sagan adorning the bare cubicle walls. The body heaves, sighs and hurls itself into the blue chair and proceeds to set up a laptop sourced from the back pack its been carrying. The body feels somnolent and sighs again.

I feel sad.

Who is this person? Why does all of this feel so familiar and comfortable? Why do I feel like I am indulging a voyeuristic fantasy I once had? How does this end? Is there an ending?

I know the life I see is not mine, but that’s all I know.

It’s been three days….

Truism #2

2010-07-05T12:41:00.002+05:30

Privacy is two minutes to yourself in an abandoned corridor at a hospital overlooking a garden; two minutes to breakdown and be human.

Of Hope and Dead Butterflies

2010-05-22T20:42:00.000+05:30

Hope is unwelcome but when it comes it is accompanied by anxiety and nervousness.

Nervousness causes butterflies to beat their wings hard in my stomach, it’s a happy feeling for a bit, but stretch it out long enough and butterflies beating their glorious wings out in my stomach cause nausea.

If I stifle the nausea the sensation manifests as a laxative influence and if I stifle that long enough I start feeling dizzy; things go a bit blurry and then there is blackness.

The Blackness has consequences as violence typically does.

I want these butterflies to die quietly like they do in my bell jars when the air starts running out. These calm, lithe butterflies with their dark hair, their doe eyes, smooth skin…

Hope needs to be allayed.

With Love and in Good Faith

2010-04-20T08:47:00.001+05:30

Dear Friend,

Something has died inside me. Days pass by like seconds and moments linger on in memory as days once did. The routine of responsibility and duty builds as much character as it destroys personalities. I suckle at the teat of consistency like an eager and hungry infant, never getting enough yet unable to process that which I have already consumed.

I find myself praying more and expressing more gratitude for the life I have, I don’t know if that is a reflection of my new found faith in the greater whole or a quiet surrender to the circumstance of perpetuity; an acceptance of my life as it stands.

The woman I loved, hated, befriended and fell in love with again no longer seeks my association or society. It is a terrible loss to one as reserved as I; more than anything I miss having a friend to speak with or a lover to comfort and find solace in. Strange indeed is the nature of our faculties, always yearning for that which has passed and never sated with that which is held.

Music and my thoughts are my sole companions now, they comfort me but they are limited by the lack of presence and reaction. Friends near and dear have set out to quest for their fortune abroad- I miss their life and wit but I care too deeply for them to wish them anything but success and good fortune, both of which I am sad to remark cannot be accomplished at home.

The taste of ambition and the sense of yearning deeply for something, have struck me. Though I find myself more able and confident of my abilities, a sense of foreboding does get the better of me. I know not where this fear stems from or why it overpowers my faculties so, but prayer and faith see me through these episodes of doubt.

Is it odd to fear your own potential? Is it odd to fear the waste of your abilities? Is it odd to be a silent spectator as your life happens around you? I suddenly sense that this is so; it is a new and alien feeling to me. It makes me anxious to waste a single breath or moment, I know it is an unpardonable crime but how do I break the shackles of routine and duty?

I have been meaning to travel and meet new people. I always seem to be at peace with myself when I travel. The new experiences and people I meet always tell me where I stand in my journey as a human being. The road reminds me that life is the road and that the only finite element is time. The people I meet remind me of the things I can still do and the life I can still lead. A bit of faith and gumption to survive the consequences is all one really needs to make choices.

I read somewhere that choices bind us or set us free. I wonder if I chose to be bound by my sense of duty and routine and if I chose that why am I not at peace with it?

I miss your ear and meaningful advice. I pray that your venture is successful and you return to us or perhaps we can meet in Paris, it is summer after all. Do write back.

With Love and in Good Faith

Constance Bridges

Reminiscences of an evening past- December 30, 2009 (Act III)

2010-02-24T11:10:00.002+05:30

Smoke billowed from the tall, lanky man’s nostrils; it was not without cause that the title “King of Smoke” attached itself to him during his exploits in Africa. His cool and deft handling of the hookah was mesmerizing to watch. The victim sat there with a blank look on his face as his brain tried to process the taste of apple flavored smoke which mingled jarringly with the bile in his mouth and nostrils, a token from his recent vomiting episode.

The quartet of men that comprised this party was sufficiently inebriated, the twenty three drinks they each had was too much for any of them to manage on a stomach deprived of solid food. It was a night for debauchery and all, but the victim, indulged in the evening’s festivities. The drunks left the watering hole to their iron carriage, the King would be driving and no one opposed.

*The scribe remembers little beyond this point given his ability to witness events was impaired sufficiently. Imagination fills in the holes left by alcohol induced memory loss*

The carriage rolled along at a sonorous pace along deserted boulevards, pleasures of the carnal type beckoned the spirits of friends who sought to favor the evening’s prize on the victim.

The King was aimless in his direction of the carriage and eventually decided manoeuvre it to the points of convergence near the vaunted symbols of the nation’s military pride. Vice was to be had and here was where it would be found. A slim androgyne emerged from the shadows; she was pretty and moved aggressively. She approached the carriage cautiously and looked in expectantly at the man and his companions- her price was 2000 to pleasure the quartet but her attention was directed to the victim.

The victim’s dulled senses were perking up as his brain raced to piece together the fragments of the conversation and images that came rushing in, the alcohol induced high was wearing off very quickly, his eyes flashed with panic, as he saw the portly man draw out a knife and currency and thrust it into the hand of the androgyne, there was an aura of wickedness and his muffled protestations failed to make an impact, the androgyne drew closer to the victim…..

Flashes of sodium vapor lights… nausea… laughing… pleads to go slowly…nausea…. Scabbard…queasy….. Gag… fresh air… relief… nausea…. zigzag …… pain…. Groin clenched… head out the window…. Vomit… blood… bile…cake…black….

An intense urge to urinate and bright sunlight greeted him as he woke up, his head pounded and burnt and vice versa, the taste of dried bile permeated his nostrils and taste-buds. It was tomorrow.

Reminiscences of an evening past- December 30, 2009 (Act II)

2010-01-10T15:46:00.000+05:30

6:45PM to 7:15PM

Two men leave a café. Two other men board a car. Two men walk to their destination. Two other men are driven there. The walk is accompanied by mellow conversation and thoughtful repose; the drive is besot by mirth and violence. The only common thought the four men share is about the appointed place and time.

The man and his friend begin walking, lost in conversation and private thoughts; they meandered, leisurely, up the pleasant boulevard and towards the controlled chaos of traffic that so frequently ail major roadways. They speak about their dreams, hopes for the future and the mechanics of success, challenging each other and playing that game of “Devil’s advocate”. There was a heavy air around both of them, what lent it that weight none can say; they solider on.

The co-conspirator, a portly man and his lanky, silent, companion drive to their destination, the radio blares loudly drowning in it’s raucous output any hope for sensible conversation. They laugh, with measured sincerity, at the prospects of the evening ahead. The car swerves onto a strangely abandoned main road, the radio blares on. A thought strikes the co-conspirator, he extracts his phone from his bag and calls the victim and his lanky companion silences the radio. They drive on, the silence interrupted only by the urgent voice of the portly man narrating a hurried story.

[“Yes… the wind shield has been bashed in…”
“We are fine.. No he sustained a few nicks and cuts, nothing too serious… yes odd enough that it happened on that road”

“Good, you guys should carry on I will call later to let you know… oh my…sure...”

“Is this being asked with him around? No? Ah! Excellent- we will be there in another two minutes.. Preparations have been made, bye.]

The man disconnects the phone and hands it back to his friend. The central business district came into view over the next rise and the two men continue on their path toward it, deftly avoiding the deep hollows that threatened to swallow them up if they slipped in. They cross the road and pass the old church, the silence between them their only companion. A gaily-lit building loomed large before them; the first man leads his friend in and proffers a story of an errand that he needs to complete there, his friend lost in his own thoughts follows him in absently.

The lift is slow and is playing a song; “Love, sorrow, pain, sweet melancholy, mirth, joy, new year, faggot, scientist, God, god, race, sex, deviant, defiant, insurrection” the game of word association being played in the man’s head ends as the lift stops at their floor and the men exit purposefully.

They walk through a narrow passage and climb the large staircase at the end of it to enter a low lighted terrace, the man smiles and greets his portly co-conspirator, the victim merely offers a wry smile and utters the cautious words “neatly done”.

Reminiscences of an evening past- December 30, 2009 (Act I)

2010-01-06T19:13:00.000+05:30

5:45 PM to 6:45PM

The dragonfly hovered listlessly over the coffee mug as the man waited at the appointed place, the coffee was cold and bad and the other patrons lost in their thoughts or conversations. The cool evening breeze made him tighten his jacket for a bit more warmth, and his index finger lazily flicked the card pinned to the gift, uncertain that he had made the right choice. A car rolls by with a great whooshing sound; the object of his wait was late.

Another swill of the foul tasting coffee made him gag but it helped his self consciousness, he hated waiting, it made him feel like an outsider, like he didn’t belong there; another swill and another irritated smile at the overly attentive waiter and his thoughts drifted. The reverie is interrupted by a phone call, it’s his co-conspirator calling to say all is to plan and the trap is ready to be sprung all he had to do was help the victim walk into it. The call is brief and does its part to ease his discomfort.

The dragonfly settles, lethargically, on his sleeve, he does not interrupt it’s exploratory venture into the creases of his jacket, his eyes wander attentively over the form the insect…. thorax, legs, wings, the hypnotic eyes and, almost as if the insect could feel his gaze, it leapt into the air and to its escape from a patient predator.

The wait was all but forgotten when his friend walks in to the cafe with an air of practiced cavalier grimness that had become his manner over the years.

A conversation ensues between the two of them; low pitched and conspiratorial tones are employed as was their usual manner. The inanity of social pleasantry and the ritualistic transaction of questions about each other’s current circumstances are satisfactorily concluded. A visible relaxation can be noticed in their manner as they break off their huddle and beckon the anxious waiter to their table. As they wait to be served more of the foul tasting swill, the first man slides the package across the table, his eyes eagerly waiting for any sign of joy or dismay from the recipient.

A sceptical look fills the recipient’s face, his brow furrows as his unusually long fingers trace the outline of the package, at once trying to find the seams of the wrapping paper and anticipate the nature of the object, his fore finger finds the card pinned to the wrapper and trepidation fills his eyes as he reads the message etched in it. The search for the seams becomes more urgent and frantic, trepidation replaced slowly by curiosity and cautious eagerness. The contents of the package now lay bare before them; the recipient’s face is filled with relief and some small measure of satisfaction. A smile and a firm handshake are exchanged. The foul tasting swill is served and the waiter leaves them to their silence.

Tribute to Hemingway

2009-10-16T09:13:00.001+05:30

...

For sale: Baby shoes never worn.

...

Truism #1

2009-10-03T22:12:00.000+05:30

The cloud and haze of tears clear,
Strengthening belief and questioning fear;
And grim realizations draw,
There are no victors in love or sorrow

Just Victims.

...

Poet Samurai

2009-09-21T00:32:00.001+05:30

The cold night gleams over the placid, glassy lake,
The wind is cold as dull steel
His thoughts are cohesive as is his will
The path before him empty.
Powerful strides carry him across the puddles of light,
The warm mat an unwelcome change in texture
He drinks warm sake and composes verse.

Cold. comfort. Inconsistent. Rough.

Little girls of all ages

2009-09-19T16:55:00.002+05:30

Pigtails, Nursery Rhymes,
Bloody razors,Bleeding eyes.
Little girls of all ages,
Expressing secret inner rages.
Sickles and saws
"Pat-a -cake, Pat-a-cake,
Baker man,Bake me a cake
as fast as you can"
They sing,as they fling,
Knife blades and each a sharp bloodied string.
I sit there petrified and speechless,
Watching them play with each other; unless
were they playing at all?

**The author dreamt this scene repeatedly in the winter months of 2004**

A Tale- an American one

2009-02-20T23:33:00.001+05:30

-The Scribe’s version-

Vanessa loved jogging. She liked to jog at sunrise by the beach. Jogging gave her a sense of personal power and freedom. Jogging led to her tragic demise.

-The Way the world will see it-

Vanessa Dalhousie was a 28 year old relationship manager in the employ of notorious Hollywood Madam, Gemini Morey. The circumstances surrounding Vanessa’s death are more than suspicious and reliable sources from within the DA’s office confirm that this was nothing short of torture gone awry. The forensic experts are scouring the scene at this moment in search of evidence to confirm or disprove theories that this was an accident. Her death makes this the third high profile one this week, after those of noted jurist Edgar Wallace and the Governor’s publicity agent Shana McSluttly.

Research into Vanessa Dalhousie’s life will show that she was a compulsive over achiever right through her childhood; she was particularly gifted at mathematics and completed her MBA in Finance at NYU. She graduated at the top of her class. She went on to work on Wall Street as an independent broker (a bold move for a fresh grad student) and went on to build up an impressive list of clients in a relatively short time. Vanessa was turning out a small fortune relatively quickly; this fact, given that she was on Wall Street did not go unnoticed. An SEC surveillance operation revealed that Vanessa was trading sexual favours with Mick Santaloupe, a noted commentator and self proclaimed stock indices guru working with the Wall street journal, in exchange for insider tips; tips which Mr. Santaloupe secured from his sources placed in unnameable private equity firms.

Vanessa moved to Los Angeles after having had her trading licence suspended and was lodged at the Beverly Hills hotel where she made the acquaintance of feared mobster Vick Santini. The muted publicity her debacle at Wall Street received was enough to catch Vick Santini’s eye. Vick was planning to consolidate his money laundering operation in Los Angeles and was looking for someone to front end his “Gangsters Only Ponzi Scheme”. It was meant to be his retirement “scam to end all scams” but after a failed attempt on his life by his lieutenant, he panicked and surrendered to the FBI and was remanded to the witness protection program and was never heard from again. His lieutenant was in fact Gemini Morey.

Gemini and Vanessa picked up the deal where Santini had left off but abandoned the idea and instead focused their efforts in consolidating the West Coast prostitution rackets. After a brief but bloody period of hostile takeovers of the various prostitution networks dotting the west coast, the duo set about establishing a luxury escort service. Their client list included the Who’s who of the entertainment industry, Politics and Big business. The men and women who serviced their clients primarily consisted of illegal immigrants and ex convicts.

Their glamorous client list & the raucous parties they threw quickly attracted the attention of the media and of course that of an up and coming District Attorney looking to make a name for himself. DA Hershner Gonsalves in collusion with the FBI started an intensive surveillance operation which tracked Gemini’s and Vanessa’s every move. But having been the victim of a sting operation earlier must have made Vanessa wise to their ways because after 10 months of surveillance the operation could not find any conclusive evidence of crime in the Morey-Dalhousie operations. After this failed debacle DA Gonsalves was transferred to a remote town in southern Kentucky and was never heard of again. The transfer was recommended by a panel of Judges headed by Judge Wallace.

The Morey-Dalhousie operation continued smoothly for over 5 years, this period of quiet was interrupted by a scandal which rocked the Governor’s office, where the Governor was allegedly taped soliciting fellatio from a female staffer while he signed official pardons to death sentences, this was of course denied vehemently by the Governor’s office and an expensive publicity campaign was launched to hush up the entire business. This campaign, headed by ace publicist Shana McSluttly, was making significant headway till rumours started surfacing that tapes of the alleged incident were about to be leaked to the press. The furore this created in the media was only amplified when McSluttly was photographed speaking with Vanessa Dalhousie in the private club room at the Beverly Hills hotel. McSluttly resigned from the campaign and was found dead a week later. She had drowned in her Jacuzzi and a Mills & Boon novella was found floating next to her body. This sparked a series of fact finding missions by various publishing houses trying to break the story first, but the death of noted jurist Edgar Wallace who was allegedly gunned down by an escaped convict he had sentenced to prison for being an illegal immigrant started hogging the limelight.

After furious speculation in the media, a pattern seemed to emerge tying the Morey-Dalhousie operation to these two high profile deaths when two mornings later the body of a 200 pound woman was found washed up on the beach. The body was identified as Vanessa Dalhousie’s, the life guard who was first at the scene had seen a large woman jogging on the coast close to the water’s edge and had discovered her an hour later while patrolling the beach for squatters which he says is a problem because of lax immigration legislation.

Gemini Morey could not be reached for a comment.

This has been a XNN special report and this is Laine Watson signing off.

Star Gazing

2009-01-18T21:47:00.000+05:30

The Sky is filled with a million deaths,
The light ebbs its last glow,
I am an immortal speck in the flow of time.

Confidence

2008-12-31T14:19:00.000+05:30

“We will now proceed with the reading of the letter, William if you please…”

- Silence-

A man is afforded few choices in the world, he is allowed to choose his company, he is allowed to choose how he reacts or responds to situations and if he is incredibly lucky (or bold if you prefer) he is allowed to choose the time and manner of his death. Choices, tricky thing that.

I would count myself among the fortunate of the human race, I was schooled in the finest institutions by inspiring minds, a beautiful woman loves me and awaits my return, I have 2 strong free thinking children and lack for nothing materially. The choices I made along the course of my life have undoubtedly guided my life to the point where I have penned these words. I mentioned earlier that I counted myself among the fortunate but I do so, not because of the considerable material success I enjoyed, I do so, because I was allowed to choose the time and manner of my death.

I can sense your trepidation as this is being read, you are my family and I would have probably felt the same way if I were there listening to these words and one of you had authored it. Fear not, I did not kill myself, I merely selected when and how I would die. I am a happy man and am proud of the legacy I have left behind in my temporal accomplishments and above all my children. No man can ask for more and no man must ask for less. Asking more always tests boundaries, yours and those of the world around you.

Questions must abound in your mind about the circumstances surrounding my death and the manner in which it played out; it’s simple really, I decided that my death will serve to act as an example for the rest of the world. I hope that it will provoke questions about why a rational, normal man like me would choose this mode over others and these questions in turn would force them to ask themselves if they would do the same. There are lessons to be learnt in everything even in something as terminal as life.

Regret is an emotion I swore I would never feel, acknowledging regret makes me feel like I haven’t really lived life to its full potential, and that, dear family is not a good feeling to have. I know because as I reflect now, I am filled with regret over not having done some of the things I thought I would do. I could have been a better father, a stronger person, a wiser citizen…the list is endless if you start, really. But the greatest comfort I had through all that was the knowledge of the choice I had been afforded.

By the time this letter is read, my emaciated, decomposing body, with a blood alcohol count slightly over the legal limit, would have been discovered by the police. Forensic analysis will reveal that my blood also contains trace elements of cocaine and heroin. My car will be discovered in the west wing of my office parking lot, the cause of death will be determined as carbon monoxide poisoning. My car will be discovered 48 hours after my death.

-Silence-

“Hi my name is William Jonah Wallaby, I am a Suicide Survivor ”

-Applause-

“We will now proceed with the reading of the next letter…”

Hypocrisy

2008-12-19T11:01:00.000+05:30

The thousand faces of Buddha smile gently,
As the gentle lotus lily floats serenely, on the still coy pond.

Climax

2008-11-22T20:11:00.000+05:30

Sirius woke up at 2 AM, he wanted a glass of water and he wanted to fuck Regina. He stretched and cracked his knuckles, he sat up and dragged his wheel chair over to his bed and manoeuvred into its sagging seat. It was an old fashioned wheel chair, the hospital had let him keep it after the surgery, Sirius thought disdainfully about the look of pity the hospital orderly had given him as he wheeled Sirius out of the hospital. “Man, that is some fucked up shit!” the orderly had said as they waited for the city bus to pull up to the side-station, “you aint got any family or friends or nothing? After that kind of surgery you should be spending time with your family man...” before Sirius could reply the bus let out a screech as it pulled up toward the kerb.

He snapped out of his flash back and wheeled himself over to the kitchen, Regina lay sprawled across the living room, the TV was still on and there was a dirty film playing, there was no sound however. Sirius drank the water he found in his refrigerator, it tasted cool and crisp. He sat in front of the open refrigerator for a while, relishing the cool breeze on his naked body. Regina groaned like a helpless lover in the throes of climax, Sirius could see her writhe and squirm where she lay, it excited him to see her that way, it reminded him of last evening when they made love while watching the dirty film.

He hopped off his wheelchair and on to the floor and used his arms to crawl towards her, she was sleeping on her stomach and her naked back had drips of perspiration on it. Sirius stroked her hair gently, he loved her smell and how her breathing was so even and steady, he leaned in and kissed her ear and buried his face in her thick luxuriant hair. Her smell excited him, he licked her ear to tease her and wake her up, but she lay there oblivious to the world around her. He tried waking her for a while and stopped.

Sirius sat back and rested his stumps on her firm buttocks and watched the movie that was playing. The CD was on loop and he groped around for the remote control, he wanted to skip to his favourite scene in the film, he searched with his hands for a few more seconds and gave up. He saw Regina lying there and couldn’t believe that he had met her only the afternoon before, it seemed to him like he had known her forever, they had spoken about everything, he had told her about the accident and how the doctors had to amputate both his feet, “Sirius..” she wept, “why are you telling me this?”. Sirius was silent after that, he was amazed that someone he just met would feel as much sorrow and pain about his accident as Regina did at that moment.

Sirius emerged from his trance when he heard the alley dogs howling outside, he smiled to himself and moved his stump over Regina. Sirius gently parted her legs and lay on top of her, he could feel his penis get hard and he thrust it in to her, he loved doing it from behind. Even as he was in her ,Regina wasn’t responding, she squirmed a little and made some gagging sounds but there was not enough of a reaction to keep his excitement sustained, he stopped after a bit.

Sirius pulled himself away from her, he reached under the sofa and pulled out a brown ,leather cased, box, he removed the syringe and a vial holstered in the case. He looked at the leather strops binding Regina’s wrists and legs to make sure they were still tied. Sirius then filled the syringe with the liquid from the vial, and injected it into her inner thigh.

Regina, started to breathe more heavily and deeply, she started trying to move her legs, Sirius could see her trying to bend her knee and fail, he rolled over beside her face to see if her eyes were open, her brow was furrowed and her eyes were trying to adjust to the light from the TV set. He smiled at her and then rolled onto her the same way he had done earlier, he was harder than before and she was squirming and trying to get a grip of something around her even though her arms were bound to the legs of the table. The more she moved and tried to resist, the harder he became and the deeper he went, her sobs only served to excite him more. He ejaculated in her, his entire body trembled as he did and Sirius felt a wave of relief sweep over him and when he couldn’t take it anymore he collapsed. Sirius made love to his favourite scene in his favourite dirty movie.