She remained one unfinished right uptil the end.
Maria Amir was the oldest seven year old that ever lived.
She told stories for a living. A carefully compiled collage of fantastic images and fragrant notions, carved into golden magic pots. There are some who say that by the end she had begun to cope with some semblance of reality, they are wrong. Reality had never been privy to her thoughts or her aspirations. It was the one precept and notion that always remained on the peripheries of her immense vocabulary. But was never invited in for tea.
I will remember her always, in incomplete sentences and unfinished thoughts. Lifelines that she left lingering mid-phrase and mid-gesture for us to carve whichever way we chose. Her classroom was always a pallette of impressions. We will never know if she was the painter or the paint, that we brushed onto the blank canvases that she laid out for us every Tuesday at 10 am. Maria dreamed of beauty with a dedication yet unparalleled. It was her one mission in life: to find magic. In art, in love, in pain and in humanity. Which is the reason why she always lived in halves. The magic needed to be complete for her to embrace it and it never was.
Once, over a cup of coffee and a consolation for not making the Dean's merit list, she told me that life could be summed up in an "If only" and an ellipsis. It was an unfortunate proclamation to have made, for it framed her destiny. A duplicitous series of "what ifs" were to mark her lifelong trajectory.
She was never one to be at ease in a crowd. Which is why when she stood at the podium in class, she never looked any of us in the eye. She spoke mostly to her multiple selves and we were always honoured to be included in such a select sphere. When she was seven, she told us, she had presumed that 'crowds' were merely a large composite of pixies. But it became harder to keep up the pretence over the years, when they started acting too much like people.
I will always remember her as a dreamer who inspired other dreamers. She was a shepard of only lost flock. Perpetually preaching to us, with polemics that painted the grandeurs of being lost. She always said that it was the journey to the point you wanted to get to, that needed magic, and that the prize point was only there for you to take those steps.
She loved junk food, coke and cartoons with fervour. Maria always said that an animated Disney feature could fix any form of depression imaginable. She relished her loneliness and concepts of kinship, which were something she never could quite reach. I remember her saying once, " Family could be good ... for those who like that sort of thing. Perhaps, around the holidays?" Maria believed, blindly, that laughter could cure anything. That a safe corner, a good book, someone to make you laugh when you needed it most and an honest dream, were the only gateways necessary for majesty.
She peeked her way through the million keyholes and half opened doors of our lives. It was never "How's school going, Jim?" ....with Maria it was "Do you think Jim, that Melville actually sampled an apple-dumpling in comparison to other foods before he condemned it as the in-road to hell on a bad stomach?" That- or some equally inane tangent- was how she said hello. That was her keyhole.
Her curiosity was colossal, as was her phobia of commitment - for anything. Which is why she only ever spoke and thought in halves and quarters. She could make you feel like the most special person in the world with a single sentence, but never quite managed to couple it with a good enough follow up.
Maria never married. But she insisted right till the end that she was waiting for a tall prince, dressed in white, with green eyes and a pixie laugh. She said that she was waiting for lightening to strike. That she was always ready for it. Had been for a while now...
It struck at precisely 7:20 am on a rainy Saturday morning in St Mary's , New York. She was 71 years old when her ever-hopeful heart sighed its last.
I got stuck in traffic on my way to the hospital that day and came in to find Dr Shah crouching over the corner bed by the window. He covered her face with a white hospital sheet, turning around to look at me with a whimsical smile.
"Well she did say that she wanted to go on a rainy day. I think she mentioned that it would help with her prize rendition of Gene Kelly! Going out, my style, she called it."
Dr Shah was handsome for his age and he was a good head and shoulders taller than I. I now recall Maria telling me that us short people were made this way so we wouldn't catch bypassers in the eye and be forced to make senseseless conversation on street corners. As I took in his soft smile and his crisp white lab coat, I couldn't help but wonder if he felt it too. The stark white room seemed to lose colour somehow- colour and flavour.
Dr Shah must have noticed that I was having a rather hard time working at - what she had always called - my 'He-man' face, because he put his hand on my shoulder and whispered "I know. This one was special, wasn't she?"
As I looked up at him I noticed something. Dr Shah's eyes were a bright, bottle-green.
"Yes, she was."
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Voted: Most likely to be Loved to Death
An epitaph of sorts for all that I have been- and fear with the fabric of my being- of remaining. It is a frostbite fire pit, being caught between people you love as people and those who love you on pedestals. I fear now that I am doomed to an ideal, purely because of my fastidious nature. I conform to pretty pedestals and the fall from any and every one of them is deep and damp.
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
It ain't a pretty picture: having you're soul replaced by kinetic stereotypes, because they fit better. Nor is it fun being loved beyond reciprocation. Everytime I have loved someone I have been frazzled by the flood of emotion, moreover by the expectation of having to reciprocate it. I am not expressive in person and paper doesnt make the cut (pun intended), in this particular case. Is it a sign of the corporeally ungrateful to crave love sans melodrama?
Too much of a good thing, isn't still a good thing. Is it?
From heart to soul
both length and bredth
Cages and canyons and caverns beget
A loonybird sprite of singular toll
to a stone prude catered and loved to death
Saturday, September 16, 2006
The Fool
There is a perverse lethargy that sets in with ambition. Technically, not ambition, but rather a branch of vision. For the first time in my life, my journey does not lack direction, I have set a course. And now I realise that the mapping of my future irks me.
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
A checklist of cap-offs sits on my tack board.
Steady job....check.
Application process, sunny side up.....check.
Thesis project progress.......check.
And I know that I am, to put it mildly, bored beyond brittle comprehension. There is an inherent abhorrence for structure set in my bones. For better or worse, I DO want more. Not more of the traditional goals, that perhaps are important to most, but I fail to find an element of priority in them. I want more of what it is the sprites call 'pixie dust'. In an inverted world where I am Queen and Shero of my fate: my life spent with a journal, a trailer and a road to everywhere and no where simultaneously. It is such a road that I hope to find love and all its labours lost with. A daily deluge of gospel guitar twangs on the radio, blank paper and sharpened pencils, loads of junkfood and a long and winding path with wider bends and steeper planks.
Then again, to dream is 'eventually' to do. Or so I like to think. Some dreams are dangerous, others silly and the rest fanciful musings. I pick the latter with a perrennial pinch of salt.
In some cultures it is considered lucky to wear ones socks inside out. Essentially implying that looking at things inverted and opposed to the norm, is either the path of the progressive and evolved or that of the fool. Again I pick the latter, this time with a cheshire grin. In the Tarot and in Zen, it is the Fool who always triumphs. He frames the first card of the deck, primarily because he is open to all firsts.
So give me the beat boys
to free my soul
I wanna' get lost in the rock n' roll
that drifts away
Friday, September 08, 2006
Poles and Pillars
Only poles and pillars protect my person. From what, I am still unaware - but after a horrible experience of being stared down for no reason, once again. I realise that I am still myself. Regardless of the packaging.
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
A wizard of Was. I now see that all it takes to leave me a tangled jumble of overtly sensitised nerves, is a well-placed stare. Unbelievable. I still can’t meet people’s stares with one of my own. I can never laugh or look people in the ‘eye’. Is that cowardice, shame or virtue? My guess is neither.
I have yet to figure out what it is about people at large that frightens me to death. I can act the lunatic to perfection in the company of friends. I can dance my dementias in docile ‘Dolly’ styles for family and I can fake fractured emotions with plastic acceptance for foes. It is always the in-betweens that get under my skin. The undefined, mass of ‘people’ sitting behind desks at convenience stores, page-makers at the office that I have to direct and servants I constantly feel guilty asking to bring me a glass of water. These are the people who scare me, in the most literal sense of the word. My palms are sweaty, my tongue twisted and my stomach in knots. It is ‘all the others’ that I cannot face. Perhaps because I have not yet been able to pick a face that works for ‘just people’. I certainly can’t stick with my own.
In the depths of Tartarus, Eros was said to trap more than just bypassing sailors. The depths of the sea-caves held nymphs who, of their own will, were too terrified of looking in the mirror that framed their gate-way to freedom. The Nymphs lingered eternally in the caves, with their backs turned to the gate.
Only the incredibly naïve and overtly fanciful believe that the nymphs still linger.
Which is why I know that they do.
Oh! Mary Mary quite contrary
Putting on a fabulous show
Your winsome smiles and nonsense guiles
Are just pretty put-ons for the pranksters that know…
Monday, August 28, 2006
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!
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!
Thursday, August 24, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, August 18, 2006
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
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
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
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".
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".
Friday, August 11, 2006
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!
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!
Saturday, August 05, 2006
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.)
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.)
Thursday, August 03, 2006
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.
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
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
Friday, July 28, 2006
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
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
Thursday, July 27, 2006
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
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
Friday, July 21, 2006
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 14, 2006
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
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
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
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 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.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
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.
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.
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