Wednesday, 29 June 2011

Love, like history, can repeat itself as tragedy and farce. And like history, is both impersonal and trivial. Yet, it has its moments which are sublime (and sublimely disappointing.)

Thursday, 23 June 2011

hmph

I want to write like crazy, but I can't. For me, not being able to write is a disease. So almost five years ago, there was this one day I was very happily stoned, and I said Kamre debo, Kamre debo, my head is on fire. And then I remember how I actually then bit a friend during a bad trip. And I also bit my mother once when I was really angry. And I bit my long suffering boyfriend many times-but really hard and not pleasantly- until he called me Kamroo Debi out of sheer frustration. (You see why I will never have a husband? Who wants a wife who bites?) So well, I am a bitch. And my bite is worse than my bark. I am becoming a sleek greyhound. Not hot but dangerous. Uhhhh. This isn't my writing style, but I can't write like I usually do, as I was telling you it's like a disease. I don't even know why the fuck I write on this blog anymore, because nothing makes sense. I am kind of becoming a drifter against my will, and it's irritating the hell out of me, because it's not me, it's circumstances. I want to be a bohemian in Prague, and that's not possible, I don't want babies or love or Oxford or even NYC (in future). I want peace and Prague or peace and solitude and the sea. It doesn't even have to be a glamorous sea if it has nice waves.

I want to forget that I can cook, that I was once good at research and exegesis, and that I'm a literate person who loves literature and music and art. No marriage, no babies, no lovers, nothing. I want none of these. I could survive on cigarettes, coffee, jazz and peace. And chocolate cake. And please, please- I am NOT writing a novel. I cannot write a novel. Or maybe just one novel, like Sylvia Plath. True poets can never write novels. There was only one exception- Rabindranath Tagore-but I feel
1. He was a novelist who was a poet. That works.
2. He could do everything.
3. He had money to travel and he was astute. Not for him Plath-itudes.

What am I even talking about? I feel like Hans Castorp in his lonely sanatorium. Having taken refuge in my useless mind, space is contracting, time is expanding and everything has become a dialogue between opposing ideas. To write or not to write? To destroy or to create? To die or to live? To eat or to smoke? To smoke or to smoke? Hmph.

Monday, 20 June 2011

goodnight

Linger in my mind awhile, while the stars are still glittering
and the island of my sorrow is engulfed by the waves
of your love, forever drowning. It is night, beloved,
and this night is a rare night, full of a thousand glittering stars
and a million transient fireflies, and they are silent and eternal
in a way we will never be.

Stars and fireflies cannot kiss and perspire, instead
they light up nights of solitude and are written about
by poets. I would not like to die and become a star
and glimmer on your night of passion
with another. It would break my heart, and a little boy
would run out into the night and tell his
mother that he has
seen a meteor.

On a dewy morning, slightly bitter and cold,
you would watch a lily bloom, and in a way,
it would remind you of the first time we kissed
and your mind opened, not just your heart,
to possibility.
What a counterfactual lily, you would
sigh.

On a wild summer afternoon, when the
scorching sun blazed, blazed red on stone and soil,
when no flowers did bloom
and no rain did fall,
and the earth cracked under the strain
until there was a drop of blood on a white sheet
that was the time of
intercourse.

But of course, bittersweet autumn evening
when the orange and brown sun
fell obliquely, through shadowy leaves
and a gingery aftertaste was left
both mellow and bitter
and everlasting
yes, this was the time we had made love.

And once, yes once,
the earth shook, and parted, there was a crack,
and we fell, plummeted into nothingness,
and arose into air. And we had wings, we were angels,
we could fly, we were one and the same person-
even alas, if it was an illusion
and while our bodies merged
for that momentary earthquake-
our minds wandered
in different countries.

And tonight, tonight is a night of
endless desire and departure, for you see,
we are on different continents and yet
our minds have met. But our bodies
though under the same constellation
cannot find any consolation.
They know these lies
called fireflies.
They want dewy mornings
sad autumn evenings
blazing summer afternoons.

They want
an earthquake-

eternity
this moment.

Tuesday, 14 June 2011

Somehow I realize that my life itself is a wondrous piece of fiction. Like the inebriated Zamindar, I cannot write it down as no words come to me in my extreme state of intoxication. I am intoxicated by my own suffering and the tragic beauty of the world around me.

I am returning to my favourite books, but they are all so inevitably sad- even when they supposedly end happily.

I am not in love anymore, only in love with fiction. I have grown old.

I am a chain smoker.

I guess I am happy.

I am happy because I do not know what I want.

There is a strange song echoing inside my head. It doesn't have fixed chords, and is a lot like jazz. Except you can't tell when the only person who hears it is me. There aren't any words, or the words are as I make them. And I can't make words anymore.

I have lost the ability to make meaningful words, because they are just that- "Words, words, words"...and if I type "happy, happy, happy" or "love, love, love" it is just the same.

The horizons are receding, and the sunlight is just out of my grasp. And something is pushing me into the ocean and I know that the waves will swallow me up, and nobody will see me again.
Not even he who loves me, nor he who thinks he loves me.

Breathe a kiss into my ear, and tell me that my life isn't academic prose, but raw tactile poetry. And that I can survive alone, even without phantom kisses.

Friday, 10 June 2011

I miss you. But I don't know who you are.