Tabhisms

Wait, wait, WAIT!
You see the whole country of this system is juxtaposition by the haemoglobin in the atmosphere- because you are a sophisticated rhetoration intoxicated by the exuberance of your own verbosity.
My name is Maria Amir…

Having just experienced the post-delight that comes from yet another epiphany long, long overdue: I have a confession to make. I am, what the inimitable ‘they’ call a pseudo-intellectual: not particularly because I don’t know what I’m talking about (although that often happens, because I bear a lamentable tendency to confuse myself more often than I do others) but because I prefer to talk smart. Unless I’m on one of my sugar buzzes. Recently, I have had the long with-held pleasure of watching old Amitabh Bachan films. A much needed experience this cruel Saara Zamaana had prohibited me from during my childhood. By the way, the Pakistani version for cruel Saara Zamaana is "Zaalim Samaajh" (lest I be accused of being a dangerous anti-semite). The confession being…

The two-6-foot-legs-with-head-attached was a comical genius, folks. Seriously. There is an elusive charm that old Indian films and old westerns’ share: an intrinsic disregard for realism, even perverse logic. They are therefore a league unto themselves. When the young Amitabh slaps a man in ‘Sholay’, the said dude dies. Crap! Doth he put Arnie-Hasta-bloody-ass-Lavista to shame? Yep, that he do be. No guns in sight. Plus for some reason, the hero must always display utmost heroism with itsy bitsy guns sans bullets at the most inopportune moments, by resorting to use his fists. Fate it is.
When he says something to the tune of “Rishtey mein to hum tumhaare baap lagte hein!” he meanses, much business – more, perhaps than even De Niro and his “talking to me” mirror. The actual genius of the man, I now realise lies in the old-young, pre monochrome beard version, sans the presently put-on sophishto. It was never cheap: purely because it so blatantly was!
I mean, Dudes and Dudettes, that even Peter O Toole or Pacino’s “go to the mattresses” can in no way trump a blue saari ‘moti biwi, with a Bara naam, who replaces all mattresses ala carte’.
Hun bol, ki kehnda e?

In the infamously made famous “You’ve got mail” Tom Hanks told us of the intrinsic wisdom hidden in the manifold layers of the ‘God Father’. The I Ching of all masculine wisdoms: hence only the trifle few quotes - with mixed days of the week and the Gun replaced by the Canola. But you see, Tabhisms offer a more profound variety of Tapori lifelines, more re-usable than Godfatherisms. For much as we would like, we do not all have the bollocks (I did mean to say balls btw, but sheesh - I’m a ‘lady’, or something to that effect) to kill all at will. Tabhisms have their own diversity. They do, I tell you.

“You see I can talk English, I can walk English, I can laugh English, because English is a very phunny language” - For all of us, and I do mean ALL, who still need to prove a point to our colonial masters. We CAN TALK the English and are working very hard on the laugh and walk, wont you please let us in your great nation?

“Sir, considering the consideration to take the run, the consideration became an ultimatum and ultimately Sir, the consideration was re-considered. In the year 1979, when India was playing Pakistan in Bombay, Wasim Raja and Wasim Bari they were at the crease Sir. And Wasim Bari gave the same consideration to Wasim Raja and Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Look Sir, this ultimately has to end in a consideration which I cannot consider. Therefore the consideration that you are giving me must be considered very ultimately”. Therefore, Sir, in the run that they were taking Wasim Raja told Wasim Bari “Wasim Bari you take the run” and ultimately both of them ran and considerately they both got out. SIR!"
– Lightening speed delivery for whenever your boss doubts your command over the English Language or whenever he or she already has a headache and you want the rest of the day off. OR as a mere tribute to Wasim Raja who has recently left us and was very considerate.

“The race is ready to go” – for every time you have not yet completed a task you were supposed to.

“Aap andar se kuch aur, baahar se kuch aur nazar aate hein. Ba Khudaa, shakal se to CHOR nazar aate hein. Umar guzri he saari chori mein, saare sukh chein band zulm ki tajori mein. Aap ka to lagta he bas yehi sapna”Ram Ram jagna, paraaya maal apna” - for every politician you have met and have yet to meet.
Exclusion clause: The following statement is to be uttered out loud in the presence of powers that BE- only in a state of heightened drunkenness OR during a suicide mission.

“Khaike paan banaaras waala, khul jaae bandh akal ka taala” – A small price to try. Definitely worth a shot if it means breaking said taala.

“Daddu Tum?” – For when death comes a knocking. And you are momentarily speechless - having forgotten and misplaced, the exuberance of your inherent verbosity.

“My name is Anthony Gonzales (to be replaced with said or yet unsaid, proper noun/s). Mein Duniya mein akela hun. Dil bhi he Khali, Ghar bhi he Khali - is mein rahe gi koi kismet waali. Jisse meri yaad aaye, jab chaahe chali aaye. Roop mein he Prem Gali, Gholli number # 420. Excuse me please?” – Without a doubt the MOST original and creative pick up line ever.

“Maula kabhi mujhe chorna kabhi nahin,
Bhoola Tera ehsaan mein kabhi nahin. Kiya tu ne jo manaa kiya, kabhi naheen. Kabhi kisi ko phansaaya he kabhi naheen”. – A sycophant’s prayer. Maula I can personally vouch for the last part.

“YAMMA YAMMA!” – A desi’s barbaric YAWP to hail life with Carp-e-diem proclamations.

“In the English, the Bhairoon becomes a Baron and the Baron becomes Bhairoon because their minds are very narrow” – Now 'aint that the truth?

“Tumhaara kya naam he, Basanti?” _ “Ji Maria, Saahib”. I like to think this one was meant for me, not that I have a tonga or any remote aspirations to wed Dharmindar. Neither, do I harbour any subsequent regrets over not having done so.

‘Mere Angaane mein tumhaara kya kaam he? Jo he naam waala wo hi to badnaam he”. – Roughly translated: Mind your own damn business, F****** Asshole.

“Apni to Jese tese. Thodi aese ya vaise- Kat jaaye gi.
Aap ka kya ho ga, Janaab-e-Aali?” – The ‘Que sera sera’ matra for all the Lawaris’s of this ‘world he na world’.

“Lo kal lo bat” – The illegally blonde synonym for “Whatever”.

I thereby claim that this ancient Tapori gospel, despite its warped machismo, trumps the western version of un-fairy like God fathers. Times are a changin’ my friends amd 'us', wherever-the-hell-borned-still-forever-confused-desis (WTHBSFCD) have gots- ta- stick together and realign our minglish’s and mojo’s (couldn’t help it) eastward.

Keh diya na. BAS!

What a wonderful world!

I have never been here before.
At this oh-so mysterious hidden corner of my Hyde. I have never known a comfort zone that i have not had to manufacture. But there it is, at probably the most inopportune moment, in the midst of a Warwick University interview with an alleged (as in allegedly that is his name) Stephen Williams, talking about writing and art. I have never thought myself capable of breaking into song in 'public', the other variety is my very own insubordinate Casa'. But so be it.
Today i am more than the sum of my many alter-go's. I am Quasimodho, with the big-ass swollen lump of an optic-aid and a day of freedom: no gargoyles in sight except in the looking glass.
"So what kind of music do you like?"
Mostly accoustic rock.
" No oldies?"
Definitely. Armstrong is a genius.

Lo and behold! We- alleged Stephen and I, both break into a very vamped version of "What a wonderful world". And no dawdling single verse for us, oh no! I the interviewee and he the interviewer- a great divide indeed: break into a Calliope sonata.

"Maria, it really is a pleasure to meet someone like you. Unexpected, and a pleasure."


Fore- epiphany to fore-self: I just sang at an interview. I am a 'true' flake, as of today.

*After-epiphany to after-self*
It is a pleasure to meet me. Unexpected, but I am truly delighted Maria.

* After-epiphany to all selves: Perhaps the next interview calls for a 'King and I' reference.
Shall we Dance?
1-2-3 AND!

Backseat Boulevard

I am at loggerheads with myself. These are the days...the ones when I look in the mirror and see a different outfit, not the clandestine hues I wore 4 years ago, the bruises washed down with smiles and songs. I see color, but the face... that is still the same.
These are the days when I see the weakness in me.
Moreover I know it.
It smirks at me in the mirror capped in blue eye shadow and glitter earrings that I conjured up the night before with dried paint and copper yarn. Today I know that I am a shit load of talk and a heap of no goes. Tall dreams - thats what he said. "Thats all you are Maria, a silly girl who dreams and doesn't know how to 'DO'". Today I fear he may be right. His voice is louder today. Not the nocuous buzzing of 'as per usuals'. But hope springs eternal in Silly-girl-who-dreams-Land. A half-full glass of dapple vinegar. One last gulp to go.

Tomorrow is another day
on Backseat Boulevard.
Another corner at carwash dreams.
A new ode to left over casseroles in the fridge .
A last look at my rainbow poncho,
unravelling at the seams

Corrections for the "politically correct"

I stumbled accross something today. Amidst the myriad of letters I go through, that defines to the hilt, my un-affirmed journalista' non-aspirations, my vocational training and my current Job description. It seems of late that new rules of political correctness, have been devised by 'civilised countries' and the UN. Majority of these rules form cleverly concealed ad-libs for so-called democracy. But the developing countries of the world should take care to make a note, nevertheless. As should I.

Rule 1: In the Middle East, it is always the Arabs that attack first, and it's always Israel that defends itself. This is called "Retaliation".

Rule 2: The Arabs, whether Palestinians or Lebanese, are not allowed to kill Israelis. This is called "Terrorism".

Rule 3: Israel has the right to kill Arab civilians, this is called "Self-Defence" or these days "Collateral Damage".

Rule 4: When Israel kills too many civilians. The Western world calls for restraint. This is called the "Reaction of the International Community".

Rule 5: Palestinians and Lebanese do not have the right to capture Israeli military, not even a limited number, not even 1 or 2. This is called "Kidnapping".

Rule 6: Israel has the right to capture as many Palestinians as it wants. There is no limit; there is no need for proof of guilt or trial. This is called "War on Terrorism".

Rule 7: When you say "Hezbollah", always be sure to add "supported by Syria and Iran". This is called the "Axis of Evil".

Rule 8: When you say "Israel", never say "supported by the USA, the UK and other European countries", for people (God forbid) might believe this is not an equal conflict. This is called "Helping our Friends".

Rule 9: When it comes to Israel, don't mention the words "occupied territories", "UN resolutions", "Geneva conventions". This could distress the audience and is called "Anti-Semitism".

Rule 10: Israelis speak better English than Arabs. This is why we let them speak out as much as possible, so that they can explain rules 1 through 9. This is called "Neutral Journalism".

*Golden Rule*
If you do not agree with these rules or if you favour the Arab side over the Israeli side, you are in all probability, a very dangerous anti-Semite. You may even have to make a public apology like Mel Gibson. This is called "Democracy".

Fortune fairy

Today's fortune: If your desires are not extravagant they will be granted

Not in all the lands and all the Kingdoms has a thought more depressing been voiced. Yet the peripheral forum for us socially retarded took up the mallet. Thank you, Orkut for the extended reverie, cut brutally short! Your reality check shall not dwindle, nor shall it be forgotten.

Fairy Fairy quite contrairy
Dont let my dream castles grow
Bash them down and slather them round,
And put on a fabulous show!

Little Mermaid Diary

Entry: October,1991
Night Time.

Dear Diary,
I have decided that I want to fall in love now.
And I have decided that I want to be in love with Prince Eric.
I think I will marry him when I grow up.There are three reasons why I picked Prince Eric over all the other princes.
1) He has Green eyes
2) Ariel already has Sebastian and Flounder, and she shouldnt have all three. Yesterday when I wanted to go to Yummy's 36, Baba said that we cant have everything and too much of anything is bad for you. I think he's wrong, but I still dont think Ariel should get everything, as she already has red hair and is an under-the-sea princess.
3) Prince Eric doesnt wear girly blouses and tights like all the others AND he has a dog.

(Barring Yul Brynner and Johnny Depp, I stand by my decision. I do want to marry Prince Eric when I grow up.)

Malice in Yonderland

Backed into yet another corner by niggling doubt.
I believe today is the day to revisit my amorality. It's been a while, but I am sure that I can manage if I so choose. How does a vehement prude discard her scruples for the sake of some semblance of insanity?
A tango to tangle with an unknown tomorrow. That is all I ask of today.
Just enough of a shove to allow my head and heart to realign with the revised morals of a sacrament as old as time " a wasted youth better by far than a wise and productive old age".
I find myself deep in the midst of the solicitous yearning to prove myself. Most definitely unchartered waters. Unfortunately this particular brand of 'wish' merits an audience. Sowing the seed of consequence, it seems, no longer squanders a fate foretold...it only maps it. Naked on a stage for a spotlight? If that be the case, then so be it.
The impetus of my action once again bears the brundt of paternity. They say that every step we take is formed by our fathers left foot and our mother right. There is thereby, little wonder in the fact that I walk in shoeboxes, consistently colliding with myself. I dance circles around my potential and a rather remarkable fox trot over my tenacity.
My chronic curse remains to piroutte my verbs around alien nouns and gremlin faces. However, I have experienced an epiphany of sorts, shared with 'Material Girl' Madonna and a pack of MnM's, post midnight to a Blue moon: to frame my renewed disenchantment. A call to arms and amorality. I resolve as of now, to conveniently solicit my "to do's" with fervent fanaticism and yes, at present, a not-so-blatant expense of roadblocks and hitchikers. It is about time I excercised some passion! If not for mortals than for Mermaids, Matadors and Medusa's.

I hereby, solemnly swear on the salvages of my wavering conscience and all my religions- to raise Heaven and Hell on scroll as I see fit.

Anticipating unprecedented Malice in Yonderland.
So let it be written.
Let it be Done.

Good girls go to Heaven- Meatloaf

Good girls go to heaven
But the bad girls go everywhere

When the wind is howling through your window pane
It's not the only pain of the night
You're burning up in your bed, you got a fever of love
And there's not an anti-body in sight

Hey Jenny, Jenny, why are you crying?
There's a beauty of a moon in the sky
But I guess when you've been leading such a sheltered life
You never lift your head and look so high
You don't have a lot,
but it's all that you've got
And you can turn it into more than it seems
Just give it a shot,
Fantasize every movement
And imagine every inch of your dream

No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel
nowIt ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air

And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so, Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer, I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere

When the sweat is sizzling on your skin in the dark
And you're desperate now for somewhere to turn
Every muscle in rebellion, every nerve is on edge
And every limb has been erotically burned

Hey Johnny, Johnny, why are you shaking?
When a boy should do whatever he can
You've been nothing but an angel every day of your life
And now you wonder what it's like to be damned

Every time I try and dream you,
I can't believe how hard it's been to
Conjure up your face And trace your body in the air
All the seconds go on forever,
But the thirds and fourth ones are even better
Everytime I do it just a little bit longer
Everytime I dream,It's just a little bit stronger than real life
No one said it had to be real
But it's gotta be something you can reach out and feel, now!

It ain't right, it ain't fair
Castles fall in the sand and we fade in the air
And the good girls go to heaven,
But the bad girls go everywhere
Somebody told me so,
Somebody told me now I know
Every night in my prayer,I'll be praying that the
Good girls go to heaven

Eulogy

The night no longer grips my spirit as it once did. The magic moon and creeping vines as they lose all grandeur, form my overtly calm self. Relishing the night takes time, an epoch of rage and fear, culminating to the pinnacle of anticipation. The point where waiting for the fear to ‘kick in’ becomes the adrenaline rush that eclipses all others. Like tasting fine wine, the night needs to set in and marrow with bone.
A legacy of running from tick-tocks frames my subsequent growth. The night no longer pretty, the days no longer gritty - just a frameless smog of empty silences. Having faced those demons a long time ago, the silence is no longer beautiful. The calm before the storm, has come and gone and at present I find myself in the midst of an intense disregard for all things calm. I wade through desert sands in my dreams, copiously waiting for the morning sun to help the crack kick in.

And it does…
The sun bristles outside as the electricity conks out. I discover that there is no flavour superior to the sweet tang of sweat. To sit through each dreary drop coursing down my neck as I navigate my way through the stickiest day of my life.
Blissfully zoned out- enough to tune out the sense of discomfort. I am the quintessential junkie on his final trip. The one you wait for with every quivering, shaky breath. Every other hit becomes just that- the 'others', fated to bring me to the precipice. Now, there is only the wait. To savour the slow but steady satire of my demise. The mellow tendrils of an ashen joint soothing out the kinks in my soul, the battered scraps of syringes cased in coral blood coating my sea of memories.
And I hear you kiddo, as clear as life before death.

My sweet, pretty baby
After mama moved on and daddy left home
The sight of you all grown up in a cradle
With money and a rock and sugar on top
To rub in my betrayals

How does a masochist apologise? "I’m sorry kiddo. I linger in your four-year-old shadows everyday". There is no laughter to frame my face, no more songs to sing my pace, no more smiles to send your way. They all lie in your pocket purse, as I wait - bound forever to your withheld ‘get-go’. Just that kiss on the cheek to say “move along on your way, cause I’ll be okay”. But it never comes. I am marked with your granite glare, to slash my soul. You are the only God I pray to for forgiveness.

She left you long gone,
with a sketch of a song
And now you’ll swallow up souls for a living

Just one more chance at being a sodden saviour, kiddo. A colossal apology for a smile?
Believe you me, loneliness comes free. There’ll come a day when you will need me there to love you.

You and me and the Devil
make three
You wont need any other love baby

Just one last chance and one more dance. Even the nights don’t sing to me anymore. Just one last smile as I work on my wiles, for a calendar of your candy kisses baby.

Come lay your bones on my turpentine stones
Just you and me.

I don’t need any other love baby

Beautiful Loser

In the immediate unforseen,
How am I to navigate the course of wants and wishes with can's and cant's. The practicalities of things are hard pressed to hit home at present, and there is little denying that it is about time they do so.
So good. I am resolved to face my fate. I shall try and try again on my intermittent stumble, tumble, fumble of go-getterdom. My way, highway, byway- all in all to carve my own path. Camouflaging, non-chalance and faliure with color and wit, no longer makes the cut. No more running away: I shall trudge my road. Skulk and sulk the sign posts, but walk it nonetheless. Two pints nurture and four spoons nature, now call me to the point where the inpermeable 'twain must meet'.

Beautiful loser
Travellin man,
just do it once
while your able and can

Happy birthday Girl!

You see dear girl,
There is 'fiction' in this ache between these lines in font and my memories. A catechism unravelling at the seams: of you and me and the demon who dreams.
Blowing candles at each pit stop cake, of every birth and every wake.
I write it down, every word a truth.
But it doesnt mean that im not just telling stories.

A birthday wish spanning every age
to the seven year old me and her gilded cage

A birthday song for the long and gone
Seedy wanderer of slush 14 and moving on

A birthday card for the doomed to dance
through sweet-16 memories and one lost chance

A birthday kiss for the hard to miss
A stalking statue on the precipice...

Of Meece's and Frogs

It puzzles me to no end.
The fact that inherent genius placates itself, hiding under sublime layers of arcane comedy and banal banter. Then again for some reason in my eyes that is 'genius'...sans pretence. Out of all the Bob Dylan songs in the 'Great American' songbook, it is 'Froggie went a courtin' that strikes me the most - perhaps because its silly.
It is the blatant 'Old Mc Donaldisation' of the lyrics that gets me everytime.
Action-reaction-subjection-derision-deduction-induction-instruction-Action. From the Poet of poets: this is Dylan at his peak, because he writes without an agenda, unlike most of us who do. Come to think about it so does Dylan, he is probably THE polemicist of his age.
But with Froggie, not at all, there is no beginning or end to the nihilist nonchalance of this ballad. This dirge spans time and space, it is a run-on sentence and palpable cycle of never ending-dom to the finish. The romance of Mr Frog and Ms Mousey incontrovertibly trumps every Juliet her Romeo. A romance that inconsequently harps on about the manifold 'nothings' and 'everythings' of existence. The farcical tragedy of tragedies....of a fate fortold for us un-inhabitable mortals, who strive to break walls and glass barriers and glimpse haloed ever-afters.
Never again will a frog love a mouse.

It is us meece's who must wait,
wait...
wait
For the last piece of cornbread sitting on the shelf.

Homo-Escapian

It is often hard to harrow out the intricacies of being honest to the point of perfection. Is there such a thing? To be completely, unfetteringly, unflinchingly honest in ones' being and speech. I hardly think so, or I like to think not, since it dispells a notion which I find may be impossible for my ever-wavering capacities to conform to.
Virginia Woolf, in one of her many diatribes on feminism and the empowerment of all that is Yin in the homo-escapiens of this world, has spoken of killing the 'Angel in the house'. She has reiterated the need for the unequivocal demise of this sentient being that plagues the female psyche, to consider the repurcussions of their words and actions. Not because of the consequences that may indelibly occur due to this 'un-due' voicing, rather for the opinions that may frame in the minds of men, regarding these shemale 'perpetrators' of blatant, bold and boisterous speech. It is true that Woolf may not be one of the most objective caricatures to stand by, nor by any means the most sane (pun intended on all peripheral scales). However, the Lady does have her moments of grandoise epiphany, and this one is no less.

'Killing the angel' could most literally be taken as having no fear, and writing unflinchingly about everything. Taken in the literal context of the time, no-holes-barred sex-talk baby! However times have changed, it is indeed the 'best and worst' of them. The scales for judgment as it so happens, have shifted... slightly to the left. Women are now seldom judged for talking about sex, instead they are more often than not, judged for not talking abou it. The scale for judgement is far too complex, for who can tell what makes a woman intellectual and not ineffectual? Is it abstaining fastidiously from pop music and romance novels and seeking solace in political rhetoric via the Time and Newsweek? Then again, there is a difference in 'seeking' and 'finding'. Heresy once again compels me to strut it ' Seek and ye shall find' just isnt going to make the cut this time.
To seek intellect and admiration, through highly inconclusive jargon, is not necessarily equivalent to finding it. Neither is it in any way productive. There (unfortunately) ARE those who 'find' solace in a Britney Spears crink and in Elle Woods's euphamisms. What of that poor lot of 'lost flock', is their path to be condemned even if it works? Is trying to sound or act smart, in fact smart? How can it be admirable if it is pretentious? Then again how often is it not pretentious to be consequently admired?

An adop-duction of worlds it is, this flux of information and to pick and choose the right and left of it, is nearing impossible. The Angel's demise, therefore demands that we pick the 'Puck' of slurry silliness along with the abject geniosity of the Poe, it means we embrace the acids of Coke with the daintiness of wine, it means that we relish Grape Skittles with the same dedication we award to Caviar, it means we ferociously ( or less so) belt out Jackson moves to Billie Jean simultaneously reminicing to Rachmaninov rapture.
It is a 7-course meal of rainbows, my friends and the canvas tints both black and white. The Angel is dead, the looking glass simultaneously smudged and sparkling. For time will prove that there is little perfection in the word 'perfect'.

Paint the pallete of colors
to clasp a Kaleidoscope of flavors
All shades black
All shades white

Quit playin' games with my hide!

It seems infantile and slightly ridiculous that i still react to silly key words like 'gun-shot', 'punch' , 'lizards' and 'bruise'. When you've survived the train wreck, why let the smell of smog and sound of shrieks hound you? But it does, it is always the little things. Much the Pavlov puppy am I. Automatically cringing and barking to symbiotic signals that arent even 'signalled' specifically for my person.

The game's about money
It goes on for duplicity

Its' the bottom of the ninth
Batter up and smash it
'cause the game ain't funny.

The Wanderer

As I ponder a path yet un-foretold
of broken barometers to rage against the dying of the light.
As fierce echoes of foregone passions shrivel to squander,
a truth yet lied to death
And the crashing cries convulge cradles' that fall

The Acid priests in mighty towers, solemnly recall
The 'Aimless wanderers' of lonely caves
and lowly taverns of ill repute

A phalanx of pubescence, seeking answers to lost questions
"What is the color of intoxication?"
"What is the flavor of good intention?"
"How do the 'pure' savour pretention?"

Little do they know...
Not all who wander are aimless.

Not if ones aim in seeking wonder
...is to wander.

Yes Sir!

I do not know if I am any good at following orders, then again, I am consequently brilliant and subsequently a mess. I can conform to appearances and never to intent. Which always begs the question, how does one separate the two twins? I suppose if they can remove beings that share an intertwined brain and heart through cold hard metal, they can separate ideals and action through bitter euphemisms.
An 'adop-duction' of this world am I, bristling to call me an orphan after you meet them' folks. There they go, scampering off into distant horizons... the prophecies of lonely pilgrims and solitary travellers, merely travellin' through, passing on and sailing high...

Yes Sir, yes sir!
Three bags full sir,
Dont really give a crap about the other two
Just the one for the little girl
who lived down the lane

Just that one will do...sir.

My coping curse

A precipice of precincts that surrounds my being and my dreams. I do not know if they crumble, cross-multiply or carve on into new forays. However, they do change.
Completely.
Whether or not 'change' is a good thing, is a question I believe I am doomed to evade forever and whether or not that will 'break me' or 'make me' is something I am cursed to cope with. However like a dilapidated patch quilt I am oblivious to the new patches that will grace my old posture. Living in the brundt of my dreams, fading in the slow malencholy of hazy sleep and wallowing in the self-effaced characters of my own conscience is definitely not productive or practical. But it seems impossible to dodge.
I wallow now, consciously and consciencously in my depracating, dilapidated demons. For I blame all my failures and flaws on silver-screen sabbaticals and merry melodies. I blame, without guilt, the hollywood dreams and the silverscreen screams that barricade my being from quietly accepting and adapting to the bitter salt tang of reality. I blame every myth from taking away my will to say yes to "can be's" instead of "could have beens".
I blame them.
I blame them with all my head and none of my heart.

Once upon a Rhyme...

There are moments in ones' life when we come intermittently face to face with our mortality, the moments are few and far between, but they exist. I wonder, now that I see my life perpetually trounced by outward phantoms , that I am prone to live vicariously through my words.
It is not a writers curse, as I would so like to believe - rather a cowards penance. Most men and women, who write, string together the words to dictate a life already lived or conceived. I, on the other hand, do so to avoid the latter. My words are the substitute for the journey, I write, because I come to see now that I cannot live and the words make this epitaph seem prettier somehow. Inanely glamorous and tinted in a softer hue than abject failure.
There are some select few, who are destined to go through life and not around it, sadly I begin to realize that I am not one of them. Even when life has left me little choice - backed me away imperceptibly in an unbearably cramped corner, I wish my way around it. Never, do I merely walk the path stretching out before me.
I paint it in my head, choreograph it in my senses, but NEVER do I feel it run through my fingertips.

Is mortality being faced with death? Or is it waiting for it with a smile? Or more likely, something wedged uncomfortably in between. I suppose what irks me the most about ‘musts’, ‘don’t’s’ and ‘end’s’ is the black out at the base of each word; there are no windows to these words. Only tar and cement to plaster every tiny opening. Perhaps the shortest path to Heaven 'is', in fact, straight through Hell.

What do I want?

A mind exalted beyond mortality? For there is no such thing. Plato is dead and I hardly think it matters to him that we remember his name. Is it a run-on sentence that I wish for, perpetually flawed? Yes I suppose that may be it.

For I loathe the abject finality of ordinary words on tombstones' that are left behind to summarize the entirety of a soul. People use words like Beloved Mother, Daughter and Friend, just as carelessly and cause-lessly as they do 'Blue' or 'Dog' or 'Paintbrush'.
‘In loving memory of’….words that say less than nothing.
There are no run-on sentences for tombstones. None bother to voice “Beloved Mother, who made pancakes on Sundays and loved about- to-rain cobalt skies” or “In loving memory of my daughter who hummed the ‘happy days’ theme in the morning and a Sparkles anthem every night before she floated off into Neverlands, yet unbreached”. No, there are only monosyllables at the end. That and full stops.
It hurts me, more than I can say that people no longer start sentences with “Once upon a time” and end them with “And they lived Happily Ever After”. I fear, that they too, already realise that the few who believe them, are destined to be broken by both.

And were an epitaph to be my story
I’d have a short one ready for my own
I would have written of me on my stone
I have a lover’s quarrel with the world.

(Robert Frost)

Presumption Pitfalls

Again I face my proverbial 'writers dilemma'.
People ask me, so casually "what do you do?" and I always respond in kind, hard pressed to describe that I merely do what I am...
"I am a writer, I say" and the vibes unnervingly shift.
Presumptuous girl! thinks of herself as a writer! For some reason calling myself a writer is different from saying that I am an MBA or an Engineer, there are no degrees to prove the point and regardless of my quest for one, there will never be a degree to prove this particular point. I say so, because I wish to be nothing else. I never claim I am any good, merely that I am.

And now I fear I have lost my rights. I need to jolt my being yet again, with application forms and 'personal statements' to prove that I 'do' what I simply DO.

But 'Do' I shall, make no mistake about it. You always said that I should know my place and my worth and aim low in consequence. I fear that I cannot comply. I shall apply to Oxford, dear Father, if only to prove that I had the courage to do so and that I am not merely a waste of living space. I shall fail, in all probability, but not for a lack of trying as you anticipated.

You always said that I was an artist because I didnt have the capacity or brains to be anything else.
You were right.
I didnt.

Rembrandt Rhapsody

And they say it never ends...
The wheels keep on turning and the scars just keep on burning.

Why does it never end?
Why is it never enough?

I feel like a maxed-out credit card, an overused trash can for emotional dumping. At the same time I marvel at my ability to bounce back everytime I feel that the world and life has pushed me over the edge. I curse this 'so-called' gift. Infact I dont know if reality lies in the fact that the world never ends or my will, one of them SHOULD.

I feel too much like a Rembrandt painting, splashed to splendour with burning colours. Hardly any room left for detail or vision. And so the question begs the asking...
How can i paint more on the same canvas, without whitewashing or starting over?