Tuesday, 30 June 2009

not.

Sometimes words are not enough
Love is not enough
Faith is a gaff
My heart is chaff
Vot a laff.
Indisposition over a subtle miaow. Why did you step aside?
When you mew better and drew better (more than inference)
Was it intemperance? What a wench I was, what a wrench it was.

Do I know what I write? No, dear reader.

NOT.

P.S. Thanks to Auroboros. (Auro boro hosh.)

And then, in her love, I became a cow from a cat.

The mew became moo. And that was that.

Monday, 29 June 2009

I don't want to die but I don't want to feel.

Friday, 19 June 2009

wine/tea/yawn

I want to overflow with ideas but usually burden myself with abstractions. I will grimace if you ask me to explain myself- so:

1.> The heart is a desert of many conceits and much deceit.
2.> Monotony has a strange grating sound of its own. Like a machine. Where are you, o li'l un of glitter and dream?
3.> The drama excited me, the farce fascinated. What drama and farce? Oh the everyday one of course. The cat in the hat, the cat out of the bag. That kittenish feline everyday purring. And those eyes! Green;wide-eyed. Wonder and hatred. Wondrous hatred. O miaow again.
4.> There are no more chocolates in the fridge now.
5.> I am going out for a kebab dinner. I wish I could go out for a boat-ride. Again. But this time almost-alone, a sort of dirge-ride... a swan-song to that which could never be. Incoherence for me always disguises a mind curiously alert and attuned. I know that which I am, inarticulately & beautifully coherent. A mirage of meaning.

Hyphenated words have almost fascinated me. What makes a pair? Why can't a red sock go with a yellow sock, or a pearl with a diamond? Hyphenated words mark a strange juncture of new meaning, a meaning that one must find (amidst much adversity). Beauty is a curious thing. I hyphenate compulsively. But I hate crosswords and sudoku. And all such compulsive activities, but that does not include heterosexual pairing.

I am afraid I have grown up too much now. I am afraid I see things too clearly. I wish I did not. For this renewed clarity is an indication of singularity( and no, not to be confused with being single in the city, which is also, of course, very appealing and charming)- and a mind that is sort of grasping. And when I grasp more than kebab, I feel that I am biting off more than I can chew.

Do you think I could ever read Symposium again without feeling pain? Or without feeling? Or do you think Plato never meant it that way? Or did he? Or did he not?

Wine or tea? I am afraid that I am a tea-totaller. And now, admit that that's a good one.

Tuesday, 16 June 2009

guilt, sob, milk chocolate

I feel very guilty.

I ate the last chocolate in my fridge in a moment of depression and weakness. It was meant for an elderly couple, the Maharaja and Maharani of Burdwan, who live on Burdwan Road (Alipore). I give details only to specify that these regal-sounding people are not figments of my imagination. I feel very guilty.

Why did I eat the chocolate? Why else. Not only was it from the house of Lindt & Sprüngli, but moreover- milk chocolate. Darn.

I am almost 21, and my parents will kill me and strum my pain not very softly with more than their fingers. They will grate me and feed me to the nice looking kitty who comes for fishy every afternoon.

I will be purée of panda. Yum.

OK now bye.

Saturday, 13 June 2009

what is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?

In 2007 there was an evening. An evening when I went to the Burning Ghat for the first time and saw my favourite jethu in the world turn into dust and ashes. I wanted to uncork champagne and spray it wildly for the hour that ticked by. The pungent smell of death vis-à-vis bubbles.

Could I ever quote Eliot again? Are we those who suffer the ecstasy of animals? Did I know what I was thinking? What do people think when it is sunset? Or was it early morning? Nevertheless, desolation. Like some cheerful fairy whose wings were cut off. Tinkerbell! Tinkerbell? A futile sort of emptiness and imagined music. The breeze was blowing most hard, that day in 2007. My father was crying, was that it? The strange but not jarring music?

Eloquence is often a misguided act. Literature is a sham. Coherence is a con-man. Articulation is a hoax. Dupe me not, stranger- and I shall regard thee all the more. Where is thy sickle, o fickle god of retribution? I only see the moon. It cannot be.

And then, ~The End~

Postscript- What is beauty, saith my sufferings, then?
If all the pens that ever poets held
Had fed the feeling of their masters' thoughts,
And every sweetness that inspir'd their hearts,
Their minds, and muses on admired themes;
If all the heavenly quintessence they still
From their immortal flowers of poesy,
Wherein, as in a mirror, we perceive
The highest reaches of a human wit;
If these had made one poem's period,
And all combin'd in beauty's worthiness,
Yet should their hover in their restless heads
One thought, one grace, one wonder, at the least,
Which into words no virtue can digest.
(from Marlowe's Tamburlaine)

Friday, 12 June 2009

I have been tired.
Every poetic thought I have had was rendered into untruth.
Where starving thousands abound
The waters do not recede
The foodgrains do not come
What should I write?

I wish I could ask for help directly on my blog- would it be of any use? Then please help us. Whoever you are, however you read this, even if you contribute a rupee or ten rupees- help us rehabilitate lives that are devastated beyond measure.

I wish I could be more coherent and articulate but I can't. I haven't been able to post angsty nothings because now I know what pain is, what grief is, what hunger can be.

We must help. Please help us. Please care. PLEASE?!

Thank you.
Okay, I assumed you know what I was talking about. Aila. We're working in a few villages in the Sunderbans. Please help.