Tuesday, November 29, 2005
you see the words, they form a train that flows through your brain, a river of thought that is either a trickle or a rage, but never nothing. everything is something. Crash.
i am worried. about many things. do you know that? did you know the number of the house was written in white? did you notice the red? probably not. i did. i always do. the inconsequential fascinates me. it is so forgotten, so pushed aside that i can't help but believe that there is a secret hidden within it somewhere where no-one bothers to look. in my universe the unexpected carries salvation, and the real punch line is that it's not even hiding, you just don't know how to look. they say that seeing is an instinct, you cannot explain sight to the blind. but it isn't - because you see only those things that you're used to seeing. the challenge is seeing things that you would not.
is that so difficult to believe? that we're wrong? we're young, or so they say. isn't everyone old?
it's quiet. i love you. but you're always quiet when the world comes crashing down, again.
when you close your eyes, what do you see?
Friday, November 11, 2005
everyone's breaking down. we are in a constant state of death. so really, when i say that everytime i talk to you i die a little inside, i'm not lying. is that not comforting? sad. it seems it should be. they always said the truth was important. somehow.
they also insisted on transparency. but can you really make your skin see-through? are you able? i can't move. i am unable. or perhaps just un.
walk, talk, breathe. can't hum, don't have it in me. can't tap because i lost you. can't sing - got no soul. no soul. nosoul. luoson. the words still carry no meaning, even if you twist them and turn them, love them and lose them.
tell me, do your fingers know what it is to have memories? instinctively searching for that hollow, for that sensation. we are all sense-based creatures. we are drawn to things. hot, cold, touch. feel.
somehow from one moment to the next we never seem to realize how much things remain in flux. everything becomes - tainted.
everyone's got a little death inside them.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
for some sonrea
hah, all good things come in disconnected packages?
hah, thats not even backwards
backwards is cliche
im not backwards, im broken. not same.
and oddly looks like a cross between that disease and sonic of the supersonic fame
Monday, October 31, 2005
backspace. there were some letters and some words, some spaces and some stops, but they don't live here anymore.
prerogative has always been a word laden with harsh tones, meanings and the unexpected. the unexpected, on the other hand, happens with monotonous regularity so that this and that are almost never what one sees in the here and now, rather one finds oneself quite without words. without denoting absence, but not loss. loss is deeper, more infiltrating into one's insides, when you feel all the cliches about a broken heart actually physically tearing through flesh. which is fallible, really - wounds always heal, but scars leave behind a mental note: don't do that again. is it unwise to find oneself in the same places with different people, to do the same things with different utensils? knives are pointy, but forks will tear you up inside. like cloth, ripped and shred to pieces so that its useless to anyone. why would anyone ever do that?
anyone - you could be anyone.
Monday, October 03, 2005
f c d b
it must be your skin that i’m sinking in,
must be for real 'cos now i can feel.
and i didn’t mind,
it’s not my kind,
not my time to wonder why.
everything’s gone white,
and everything’s grey.
now you’re here,
now you’re away.
i don’t want this,
i’ll never forget where you’re at.
don’t let the days go by
f c b
i’m never alone,
i’m alone all the time.
are you at one,
or do you lie?
we live in a wheel,
where everyone steals,
but when we rise it’s like strwaberry fields.
i treated you bad,
you bruise my face.
couldn’t love you more,
you got a beautiful taste.
don’t let the days go by,
could have been easier on you.
i couldn’t change though i wanted to,
should have been easier by three,
our old friend fear and you and me.
don’t let the days go by
don't let the days go by..
bad moon wine again.
i needed you more
when we wanted us less.
i could not kiss just regress.
it might just be,
clear simple and plain,
that’s just fine,
that’s just one of my names.
don’t let the days go by.
could’ve been easier on you,
Saturday, October 01, 2005
we were purer, cleaner, more faithful, then. we were never innocent, but have never been quite so guilty.
milk dissolves in slow, twisting spirals, and you suddenly find yourself sinking to the bottom of another mug, another time, another day. things become so much simpler when you reduce them to the you and i, but in the here and now we don't always remember where we've been, where we want to go.
the slow hand quickens..
treetops will watch over you as you argue, as you pull this way and then that. do you realize? do you see? do you even remember september?
Sunday, September 25, 2005
it was cold. not the way a chill wind is cold, but the way steel is cold. up your spine, fear crystallizing your nerves to the point where you can feel the world breathe.
but that was years ago. today the sun shines, the colours make poets out of pagans, and saints out of us all. underneath pure light, we can all be good. if only for a few moments, even you can be a child, again. warmth, somehow, suffuses everything. spread, like so much butter, over us all, your warmth will free you.
or atleast that's what they tell you in the movies.
fear, somehow, had never been a problem. you lose it, eventually, when it's been around for so long. like pure white noise, it blends into the background until it doesn't even elevate your heartbeat anymore. it lives behind your scenes, it breathes out through your pores.
it was cold, that night, but i wasn't afraid. or i was too afraid, because opposites inevitably blend together when you live on extremes of some arbitrarily determined scale, trying to make your life fit some rubric the writers, poets, musicians and artists of your time have written, composed, painted for you. when the music catches up with your life, when the words cease echoing with truth, what do you do then? who listens?
cold, warmth. warmth, cold. it breaks down. when you're warm, you're safe. that's what they told me. they taught me to fear the cold. and it was cold. what was i supposed to do, i'm just a product of forces outside of my control, right? i exist as a representation of everyone i've seen or known, everyone i've heard and talked to. your life ceases to be yours the moment you're taken from the womb. you had nine months. it's all over.
to stop is to break. the cycles are far too easy to fall into, and if our spontaneity is merely a part of their order (thank you, stoppard), then you may as well quit now. i can repeat words to you till the day we both end up on a road to nowhere, till the moment you turn to me and tell me you didn't want to fall. again. it's all a shambles.
one of these days i'll tell you a story.
Friday, September 23, 2005
through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes,
i can barely define the shape of this moment in time.
and far from flying high in clear blue skies,
i'm spiralling down to the hole in the ground where i hide.
if you negotiate the minefield in the drive,
and beat the dogs and cheat the cold electronic eyes.
and if you make it past the shotguns in the hall,
dial the combination. open the priesthole.
and if i'm in, i'll tell you what's behind the wall.
there's a kid who had a big hallucination,
making love to girls in magazines.
he wonders if you're sleeping with your new found faith.
could anybody love him,
or is it just a crazy dream?
and if i show you my dark side,
will you still hold me tonight?
and if i open my heart to you,
and show you my weak side,
what would you do?
would you sell your story to rolling stone?
would you take the children away,
and leave me alone,
and smile in reassurance,
as you whisper down the phone.
would you send me packing?
or would you take me home?
thought i oughta bare my naked feelings.
thought i oughta tear the curtain down.
i held the blade in trembling hands,
prepared to make it, but just then the phone rang.
i never had the nerve to make the final cut.
The Final Cut
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
he just sat there, took a deep pull from his cigarette and then let his arm drop to his side.
'is that all you have to say?', i asked.
'what would you like me to say, kid? go. you've only home to come back to, why bother leaving the house at all?'
'rubbish. you're apathetic to everything. that's another one of your problems.'
'my problems? don't put psychoses in my mind - i've got no troubles, kid. i'm doing just fine.'
'you're lying,' i said. And then, after a pause 'you have to be.'
'because i don't want to believe you.'
'that, my child, is your problem.'
'i suppose it is.' then he picked up the guitar from his side and played a few notes. dissatisfied, he put it down again.
'the trouble is,' he said, 'that in the end it all collapses to a single point.'
'life. the universe. everything.'
He just smiled at me, and said 'I don't have to explain it to you. You go out there, roam around for a while,'
'pick up some biscuits for me on your way back,' he added, that smile never leaving his face.
'you were wrong,' i said.
'take your damn biscuits and wipe that smug look off your face,' i replied, throwing the bag at his feet.
'forget it, i don't want to talk about it.'
'oh you don't want to talk? all you ever want to do is talk - this is excellent progress.'
'foul. no profanity - it's against the rules.'
'what rules? it's all a shambles anyway.'
'oh so you think so too, then?'
'yes. i mean no. this..all of this is a shambles. why do you even live here anymore?'
'you never asked me to leave.'
He rose and walked to the door. black silhoette, white sunlight streaming in, i swear it looked like a scene from a movie. i'd have let him go, if only he wasn't so perfectly dramatic. you can't live without that. life's grey enough as it is without your shooting yourself in the foot.
'yes, i am'
'well, what do you want now, kid?'
'must i want something? could i not have come for company, words, someone to share a silence with?'
'in my experience, you've only ever come here to get something.'
half of me wanted to prove him wrong, and just talk about the rain for an hour. but he could always see through me. it really was a shambles.
'i can't do this.'
'do what, exactly?'
'be there. i can't do it. i need to go, a..don't you understand, i need to run.'
'oh i understand perfectly. you want to stay, but you've got to run. simple.'
'its not that simple.'
the smoke rose in circles around him. it was as if the world was waiting for him to breathe.
'why don't you ever do anything?!' i yelled, as i grabbed his collar with both hands and picked him from his chair. 'all you ever do is just..sit there. you have no answers, no questions, you are..not. if you disappeared today, nobody would ever know, and fewer would care. what kind of pleasure do you derive out of this? tell me, please..i want to know. i need to know - why are you here?'
'put me down.'
i put him down. i could never stand up under his gaze.
'that's it, a. i'm leaving. i've had it..you've always been saying its time to take the plunge, and this is it. i'm not going to dance for them anymore.'
'looking for your exit?'
'it's funny. for as long as i can remember, you've been pushing me off.'
'it's the easiest way to go, kid.'
'yes, but what do you get out of it?'
'nothing. it's all a shambles, remember?' he said, with a twinkle in his eye.
'you're hopeless. this is hopeless.' i walked over to the corner of the room, looked down.
'don't bother getting up,' i added.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
i remember the morning after, and i remember the way you smell. i'll always remember the way you smell..it's like your fingerprints all over me, i could pick you out of a crowded room if you gave me nothing but a nose to press against everyones skin (not that i'd want to, but i would have. for you). i remember how your hair would come down in strands in front of your eyes, and you'd shake your head to make it swing back and away.
i remember the night we sat out and watched the moon rise. i remember leaning my head backwards and thinking of nothing at all but how warm your lap felt, how soft your hands were against my face. i remember the sunrise, the saturdays, the moonshine and the good days.
i remember the late nights and the cigarettes, the long talks and the pointlessness, i remember walking down the road to nowhere with your hand in mine, and neither of us wanted to go anywhere else. i remember kneeling down on my knees and just sitting there, and i remember the look on your face when you told me i should be in the movies.
i remember dying, lying flat on my back, listening to the grass grow around me, and i remember the day the world came to a standstill in between dancing spots of dust in the wind. i remember the taste of your skin the day you taught me how to breathe, and i remember the touch of your fingers against my face when you taught me how to sing.
i remember how graceful your step was, how beautiful your smile was, how telling your eyes were, the day you said you had to fly.
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
| You scored as Paganism. Your beliefs are most closely aligned with those of paganism, Wicca, or a similar earth-based religion. You may also follow a Native American religion.|
created with QuizFarm.com
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
That, according to the piece of paper I held in my hand, was the house. It was one of those two or three bedroom affairs, from the looks of it, with the tiny garden by the entrance, just to give you that sense of luxury. As the evening drew in it looked almost intimate, and I rang the bell.
Mrs.Ahmed came out to greet me, dressed in a neat plain green shalwar kameez, her hair tied tightly in a modest bun behind her head. Her nails were painted a particularly haunting shade of crimson, and her lips a deeper, fuller red. They were curled upwards, now, in an earnest smile as she showed me inside her house.
We sat in the veranda, a smallish room, decorated in that style of so many houses you'll find in the subcontinent: full to the brim with knick-knacks, with every available surface covered by a decorative object of some kind. The walls were a tasteful subdued off white, and the fluorescent tube light flickered incessantly for microseconds at a time. I was so involved in memorizing the little details of the room, a habit I picked up when I was a boy, that I almost missed that she was talking to me - inviting me to sit down, as it would happen.
Presently she left the room for a moment, and re-entered followed by two young children, the real reason I was there on this balmy, sweltering July evening. She introduced me to them. Adil could not have been more than thirteen, but his eyes shone with that particular light that only the young possess. You lose it earlier and earlier in this age, it would seem, but I could tell the boy was not the kind to waste too much of his childhood sitting in one place. He had straight, jet black hair, which fell on eyes in a way which forced him to constantly flick it with an airy, almost confident wave of his right hand. He wore corduroy pants and a plain, blue shirt which made him look older than he really was. His sister Aaliyah was younger, eight or nine perhaps, and was dressed in the kind of frilly white dress mothers seem to dress their children in solely for the sake of taking photographs and blackmailing them with at some later date.
When she introduced me as a friend of their fathers, the boy's eyes almost visibly lit up. Aaliyah, for some reason, had not stopped staring at me since she entered the room, and she continued to do so now, though there was now almost a quizical look to her features. It's not surprising. She hardly knew her father.
After exchanging the usual 'And how old are you?', 'Which class are you in?', 'What do you enjoy doing?' question-answer pairs that have almost become a part of our cultural subconscious, we entered the dining room for dinner.
Over karahi and bhujia we discussed the politics of the day, the weather, the need we felt for social change, the price of tomatoes, and, of course, the cricket team's current form. Conversation stretched well past the end of the meal, and Adil showed every sign that he was capable of coming up with at least twelve different better ways he could be spending his time. His sister, too, appeared to be nodding off every now and then. That was when Mrs. Ahmed, "Sharmeen...call me Sharmeen.", she kept saying, suggested we move back to the veranda and have some tea.
The children sat down together on an old weatherbeaten brown couch, while I was given the seat of honour: a white sofa chair, covered in plastic to preserve it's colour. I heard the kettle begin to shriek, and a few moments later Mrs.Ahmed returned to join us with the tea and some biscuits on a plain wooden tray, with engraved handles. After serving me, she sat down with her children, and we lapsed into the silence which follows any good meal.
"Would you children like to hear a story?" I asked. Adil nodded noncommittally, but Aaliyah's face seemed to brighten at the prospect. "It's about your father," I added, hoping to get engage Adil's enthusiasm. It seemed to work, for he immediately flicked the hair out of his eyes, and looked at me with those bright shining eyes.
"Did you know Abu well?" he asked, his voice eager.
"Oh, very well. We served in the same company in the war. Actually," and here I raised my hand to shield my lips from Mrs.Ahmed's view, as if telling the boy a secret, "that's the reason your mother called me here this evening. To help you children to better get to know your father."
He nodded, knowingly.
"Alright, then. Are you kids ready for a story, then?"
They both nodded eagerly, leaning forward. Even Mrs.Ahmed seemed taken in the moment, smiling a quiet little smile to herself.
"I first met him when he joined our company, it must have been two years ago. He had short, straight brown hair. Alot like yours, actually, Adil. Back then he perpetually had this innocent look on his face, as if he'd just gotten out of school. Come to think of it, he never really lost it, even after all the things we had seen.
"Anyhow, he joined us just before we were due to move out of another temporary HQ, on the front. At the time I didn't give him a second look, for we were all busy getting ready to go into battle and, understandably, had other things on our mind. He made it a point to introduce himself to everyone, though. He just smiled and went up to each one of us, thrust forward his hand and said 'Hello, my name is Ahmed Talal.', as if he was going to try and sell them something. You just couldn't say no to that smile. He was so serene, even with all the destruction around us.
"That was the first time I saw him, and I remember thinking that that smile wouldn't last. That it couldn't, not with everything that I had already seen, and was sure that he would see. I was wrong though. Your father - he was an amazing man. No matter where we were, no matter how bad things got, you always knew you could turn to Ahmed, and he'd flash you a smile and tell you a joke, he'd give you faith. There were times when I was sure I was going to die. I had certainty, and I had lost hope. But every time that happened, Ahmed would notice that particular look in my eye, and he'd crawl up to me (we were in foxholes most of the time) and tell me that everything was going to be alright. He'd tell me about you children, alot. He'd tell me how he had to get back, just to see your faces again. And he told me that he wasn't going to go back without me, so I'd
just have stay alive. Then he'd crack a joke about our C/O, a swarthy drunken old colonel from the cavalary days, who insisted we march into battle in single file, rifles raised vertically. He kept saying it was the way war was supposed to be conducted. Conducted! As if this was some sort of chess game.
"Come to think of it, it was. To the generals, anyway. Your father and I would spend long nights awake in the trenches, cursing the names of every general we knew. We'd swear that we'd go back to HQ and slaughter them all: Tanvir, Khalil, Arbab - the whole lot. We came up with amazing plans to do it, too. He was always one for the complicated plan. Tanvir, we knew, never missed his nightly drink. He'd get his orderly to mix it in the kitchen of the Mess hall, after everyone else had left, and bring it to his tent. We decided that one day we'd grab the orderly, stuff a sock in his mouth and tie him up. Then he'd wear his uniform (I was too big), and go straight into General Tanvir's tent and hold a gun to his head until he signed our discharge papers.
"He never did it, though. His sense of duty to his country was too great. Fighting the war, to him, was a trust. It was a trust given to him by the people of his country, and by his children. Often he'd say 'If I don't fight to protect them, then who will?'. And that was that, really. It was simple enough: he wasn't fighting to save his own life.
"He kept a picture of the two of you with him all the time. He had it in his front left pocket, and he'd stare at you kids for hours when we were supposed to be sleeping, recharging for our next assualt. I caught him crying while he stared, one day. I asked him why.
" 'Who'll take care of them if I don't make it, Ali? I'm too scared to fight, but I'm too scared not to. I have to protect them, but I have to be there for them when they call.' I put my arm around him, then, and consoled him, telling him that he would make it. And I believed it, I really did. He was a fine soldier, but more than that, I had faith that God wouldn't let a man as good as that die in vain."
Here I paused, and took a sip of my tea. I dipped a biscuit in, and then continued.
"He was a fine man. You may not believe it, but I grieve for him everyday. People like him are few, and far between. I lost count of the number of times he saved my life. In trenches you entrust your life to man beside you, and there was no-one I would rather have with me in those muddy, wet, bug-infested trenches than Ahmed."
I had to pause there, and take another sip of my tea. Going over the war was never my cup of tea (pun unintended), and this was taking alot out of me. To tell you the truth the only reason I agreed to meet with Mrs.Ahmed was when she told me that her children knew too little of their father. This was as much a duty as reporting to the base the next morning at 0630.
"I remember one time, we had been in a particular trench, up near the front line, for a week straight. Our orders were to hold the line until the tank division which was supposed to back us up arrived. We were running low on food, supplies, and more importantly ammo. The enemy had us more or less surrounded, and the only way any of us thought we were getting out alive was to retreat. Our orders stood, though. So we sat there, sitting ducks, waiting for the enemy's patience to run out and to storm us.
"It was awful. I'm not going to get into the details about how we had no place to goto the bathroom, how the trenches began to stink, and the dead began to smell.
"In the midst of all of that, I can still see your father's face, sitting there smiling his little smile. One day my patience ran out, and I snapped at him to wipe that smirk off his face, before I wiped it off for him. He didn't reply. I went right up to his face and yelled at him 'Why in the hell are you smiling like that?!'. He just looked at me, and said 'What else is there to do?' And it was true...it was perfectly true. Your father saw life like no other man I know: to him there was never any conceivable reason to allow it to get to you, because he never saw the point of getting himself down."
"I can still see his mud-spattered face, calmly telling me that there really was not point getting myself down, no matter how bad things were, so why didn't I just lighten up and play some cards with him.
"Later that same day, one of our friends got shot in the chest trying to make his way across a stretch of no-mans-land getting from one trench to another. He lay there, in the mud, bleeding all over himself. We daren't go retrieve his body, for we knew we'd get shot to pieces before we ever got to him.
"Ahmed, though - Ahmed was different. He got that look in his eyes, smiled, said 'Oh what the hell, you only live once,' and bounded off to go get him. To this day I have no idea how he got out alive. God must have been watching over him that day, because he came back with not a scratch on him, scrambling like a madman with a body on his back. And do you know what he said when he got back to the safety of the trench?"
Adil and Aaliyah both nodded their heads from side to side, as one.
"He just shrugged, and said 'Piece of cake.'"
They all laughed, all three of them. It was worth it, that whole story, just to see that family laugh as one. I got the feeling they hadn't done that for a long, long time.
"And now, my dears, I believe it's time to sleep. Your mother knows how to find me if you ever want any more stories about your father."
They each looked to their mother, who nodded her agreement, and got up off the couch. Slowly, hesitantly, they came up to me. I bent down, and they both gave me a hug, patted their heads and turned to Mrs. Ahmed. Thanking her for a wonderful evening, I made my way to the door.
The door clanging shut echoed down the street, as night drew in. They looked happy, I was glad I was able to do that for them. The truth was that their father was a gambler, an alcoholic and an incurable womanizer. He hadn't had many friends in the company, and he'd died when he disobeyed orders and broke the line to flee from a particularly hairy firefight. His story was mine.
Monday, July 11, 2005
it's a city of light, but not the kind you'd think. it's the sun setting on the beach, seen over the rim of a steaming cup of chai. its the baking heat, inside of your car, parked out in the sun all day. you want to melt into the synthetic leather, to just boil away until you're free, finally, from the banality of concrete form.
sunday bazaar, halwa puri, driving to nowhere in particular, in a car no-one else would love, with people who'd think they're incapable.
remove yourself, if you will, from your clock-in-clock-out routine, from your eight in the morning stare at a dishevelled stranger in the mirror, from your last few seconds of breath drawn while standing on a trapdoor you're so sure is going to be pulled out from beneath you, from your lonely silent stare across the rooftops, from your alone-in-a-crowded-room selfcondemned sentence, from your breathless run to the end of escape, and see the light.
Friday, June 24, 2005
go use www.flickr.com and search for 'the roof anarchist'.
if you don't have an account, get one. even the paraplegic monkey down the street has one.
alternately, go here.
oh. before i forget..yes, i said 'developed'. yes, that means they were originally prints. yes, that means the quality on them isnt wonderful after scanning, but that's just something you and i are going to have to learn how to deal with.
PS: one of you needs to fill me in on how to get those little flickr things on the blog.
thank you, and have a nice day.
Monday, June 20, 2005
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
i was down at the new amsterdam,
staring at this yellow-haired girl.
mr. jones strikes up a conversation with this black-haired
we all want something beautiful.
i wish i was beautiful.
so come dance this silence down through the morning
cut maria! show me some of them spanish dances,
pass me a bottle, mr. jones.
i want to be someone who
mr. jones and me,
tell each other fairy tales
stare at the beautiful women
"she's looking at you. ah, no, no, she's looking at me."
smiling in the bright lights
coming through in
you can never be lonely.
i will paint my picture
paint myself in blue and red and black and grey
all of the beautiful colors are very very meaningful
grey is my favorite color
i felt so
if i knew Picasso
i would buy myself a grey guitar and play.
mr. jones and me look into the future
stare at the beautiful women
"she's looking at you.
uh, i don't think so. she's looking at me."
standing in the spotlight
i bought myself a grey guitar
when everybody loves me,
i will never be
i want to be a lion
everybody wants to pass as cats
we all want to be big big stars, but we got different reasons for that
believe in me because i don't believe in anything
and i want to be someone to believe.
mr. jones and me stumbling through the barrio
yeah we stare at the beautiful women
"she's perfect for you, man, there's got to be somebody for me."
i want to be Bob Dylan
mr. jones wishes he was someone just a little more funky
when everybody loves you, son, that's just about as funky as you can be
mr. jones and me staring at the video
when i look at the television, i want to see me staring right back at me
we all want to be big stars, but we don't know why and we don't know how
but when everybody loves me, i'm going to be just about as happy as can be
small people in a small town, a small world with a small mouth...and if you repeat the words to yourself till they lose meaning you actually move backwards rather than forwards, sometimes never realizing that backwards, too, is a direction, and one direction is just as good as another.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
this is a rejection. of you.
you, you with your middle class no-deposit-no-return throwaway morals, your salvation at the end of a nicotine sticks, your escape made by turning off your mind, your eyes open yet veiled, your senses dulled by pay-as-you-go relationships made in the here and now for times you'll never remember again because you were in too deep to even realize there was something to see.
you with your liberation found in the drivers seat of a humvee, your eyes hungry with lust at the sight of each new opportunity to simultaneously be here but look there, you with your fucking washing machines and full range of appliances, your home loans, your shiny new cars, your new shades hiding your eyes because you can't even look me in the eye anymore. what are you hiding? are you hiding from the man who died across that stretch of water when someones patience ran out and they exploded? are you hiding from the ghosts of people who you looked at through closed, tinted windows when you drove through their homes?
you. you with your filtered water flowing straight into your homes, your hot tub-baths with a range of fifteen different bath and shower gels transporting you to new heights of raspberry ecstacy, your strawberry cheesecake adventures into a sky you have the gall to claim to own on nights when you deign to sit out on rocks and gaze at the sight that belongs to everyone, even the homeless.
your delivery pizzas and your disposable razors, your nike running shoes and your black leather suitcases, your feet poised half-in-half-out sideways, tensed for action, your use-it-once-and-throw-it-away-convenience life.
you with your rebellious i-dont-give-a-fuck attitude, your individualistic, self-centred, sickening spiral into a world you create to inhabit solely on your own, not simply content with veiling your eyes but insistent on going through life blindfolded. your bandanas and your guitar riffs, your 200W amp and your brand new shiny guitar you play all along the watchtower on all day and all night.
your illiterate reading of words, your deaf ears to crying children, your utter, absolute inability to see past your fingers and toes.
your creativity borne of hiding behind rocks and reading things before anyone else has heard of them and quoting at length from Nietzche, Marx, Lenin, Bacon, Descarte, Rousseau until the words run circles in your head and you have perfect recall of everything except what they meant. you and your eyes skipping to the author before the title, the source before the material, the geographical location before the point.
but more than that, more than any of that this is a rejection of the idea that to simply be here is enough. this is a rejection of us.
this is where the burning kicks in. this is where you nail yourself to a board when you realize you are who you always suspected, you've become what you'd always closed your eyes to. this is what a burnt-to-a-crisp soul smells like. would you like to taste it?
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
that is a terrible, terrible song to lazily rub sleep out of your eyes to.
C Am C Am F G C G....it's just a song, really. it goes on.
and i've grown older, and perhaps i've grown colder. the sun rose on today so very long ago, it almost feels like i've lived a hundred lives in each moment, but it's only afternoon, yet. only afternoon - why did we always have this fascination with the night?
dream is destiny. believe. do you day-dream, anymore?
drift towards the door - unconsciously counting the number of ways you can remove yourself from yourself, and be the person in your dreams, finally. i dream that i can fly. some nights i hover outside your window and watch you sleep.
oh sinner man, where you going to run to?
but i don't day-dream anymore. i forgot how to stare, meaningfully stare into space. i fear that now i merely see.
and anytime tomorrow i will lie and say i'm fine,
i'll say yes when i mean no,
and anytime tomorrow the sun will cease to shine.
there's a cookie for someone who can name that song.
Friday, April 01, 2005
when you call the modern philanthropist an idealist who is denying reality, you are, in fact, correct. this is because the reality we live in is a bourgeoise-centric reality, and as such suffering of the many is necessary for the wealth of the few. to be a true philanthropist you must be a revolutionary.
the humanitarian merely wants to 'raise' the prole from his suffering to become a member of the bourgeoise...thus perpetuating the way of things as they stand, merely removing an 'undesireable' component. what (s)he does not realize is that its the existence of that undesireable state that puts him or her in a position to begin to formulate these thoughts of 'saving' the proles.
the circumstances are not the problem, the reality is.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
why don't you love me, she asked.
i do, he said.
no. you don't, she said, simply.
i - maybe i don't. i'm sorry. i can't help it.
don't be sorry. don't patronize me with apologies. some things just are. you don't control them, and neither do i. you said that to me, once, a long time ago.
do you believe that?
i believed in you.
don't say that. why is everything so dramatic?
because real life seldom unfolds according to the script.
they sat there, together, for a long time after. finally, after the sunset, he spoke.
so where do we go now?
i don't know. what do you see in your dreams?
i see the stars.
so do i. must be a different sky.
story of my life. Unspoken.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
its heavy on my mind.
some things, it seems, werent meant to be forgotten. can't seem to let you go, despite the fact that we were never anywhere in the first place. you see that's what gets to me, really -- in the end it just turned out to be figment, but a figment i've found myself bound to for the longest time, in want...need...of something more..concrete?
you'll never hear the stories i have to tell, because we became different people the moment you made your choice and i made mine. we live with the consequences, with each breath.
melodramatic? hardly -- that's life, hon. that's just the way each day passes, and it's more dramatic than anything you'll ever read in one of my stories.
Have a nice day.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
had a good lookin’ momma who never was around
but she grew up tall and she grew up right
with them indiana boys on an indiana night.
well she moved down here at the age of eighteen
she blew the boys away, it was more than they’d seen
i was introduced and we both started groovin’
she said, i dig you baby but i got to keep movin’
...on, keep movin’ on
last dance with mary jane
one more time to kill the pain
i feel summer creepin’ in and i’m
tired of this town again.
well i don’t know but i’ve been told
you never slow down, you never grow old
i’m tired of screwing up, i’m tired of goin’ down
i’m tired of myself, i’m tired of this town.
oh my my, oh hell yes
honey put on that party dress
buy me a drink, sing me a song,
take me as i come ’cause i can’t stay long.
there’s pigeons down in market square
she’s standin’ in her underwear
lookin’ down from a hotel room
nightfall will be comin’ soon.
oh my my, oh hell yes
you’ve got to put on that party dress
it was too cold to cry when i woke up alone
i hit the last number, i walked to the road
last dance with mary jane
one more time to kill the pain
i feel summer creepin’ in and i’m
tired of this town again.
Last Dance with Mary Jane
(to room cricket with a tennis racquet, to cycling to friends places because its raining (!!) and you've got to get out of the house..., to grey skies, to causing 2pacs fall from grace, to chai, to walking across roads with your eyes closed, to aiming for jordan, to letting it burn.)
Saturday, February 19, 2005
closing time, turn all of the lights on over every boy and every girl,
closing time, one last call for alcohol, so finish your whiskey or beer,
closing time, you don't have to go home, but you can't stay here.
closing time, time for you to go out to the places you will be from
closing time, this room won't be open till your brothers or your sisters come
so gather up your jackets, move it to the exits
closing time, every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end.
always found this song comfortable, something to slip into at the end of the day. it's funny how music will do that for you when you think you've just cut the last thread that was holding you up, you suddenly find you're being held up by...nothing at all.
*blinks twice, slowly*
i've been threatening to tell you all a story, someday. but that day isn't today.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
well that’s fair enough.
’cause it ain’t no use to pretend,
when you call me out i can’t hide anymore,
i have no disguise you can’t see through.
well you say it’s bad luck,
to have fallen for me.
well what can i do to make it good for you?
you wore me out like an old winter coat
trying to be safe from the cold.
but when it’s my time,
to throw the next stone,
i’ll call you
you call me a dog, and
you tell me i’m low ’cause i’ve slept on the floor,
and out in the woods with the badgers & wolves,
you threw me out ’cause i went digging for gold,
i came home with a handful of coal.
but when it’s my time,
to throw the next stone,
i’ll call you
and when it’s my time,
to call your bluff.
i’ll call you beautiful,
or leave it alone.
you call me a dog,
well that’s fair enough.
it doesn’t bother me as long as you know,
bad luck will follow you,
if you keep me on a leash and
you drag me along.
Call me a Dog
Temple of the Dog
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
i chose my part long ago, never knowing it's the blood that taints..
idly staring out the window, decadence seeping from each pore, he sits and ponders his designs of flesh. children of a thousand vices us all, encompassed in the warm embrace of shed responsibility, another layer added to our cocoon with each new sin.
is this me, or am i dreaming?
crush me, hold me, love me - i can't go on my own...please..why won't you..i'm only human.
in a world where we limit the parts we play even before the curtains go up, caught in the harsh glare of the spotlight twisting lines to encompassing spirals, i dare you to be proud to be good.
Monday, January 31, 2005
mother, do you think they’ll like this song?
mother, do you think they’ll try to break my balls?
ooooowaa mother, should i build a wall?
mother, should i run for president?
mother, should i trust the government?
mother, will they put me in the firing line?
ooooowaa is it just a waste of time?
hush, my baby. baby, don’t you cry.
momma’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true.
momma’s gonna put all of her fears into you.
momma’s gonna keep you right here under her wing.
she won’t let you fly, but she might let you sing.
momma’s gonna keep baby cozy and warm.
ooo babe, of course momma’s gonna help build a wall.
mother, do you think she’s good enough,
mother, do you think she’s dangerous,
mother will she tear your little boy apart?
ooooowaa mother, will she break my heart?
hush, my baby. baby, don’t you cry.
momma’s gonna check out all your girlfriends for you.
momma won’t let anyone dirty get through.
momma’s gonna wait up until you get in.
momma will always find out where you’ve been.
momma’s gonna keep baby healthy and clean.
ooo babe, you’ll always be baby to me.
Mother, did it need to be so high?
Friday, January 07, 2005
is it a shiny shooting star?
and will it show me where we are?
are you going to show me, honey,
or are you just giving it away for free..
hey there little girl, whyve you turned to the side?
are you pushing or pulling away?
when did we become the wall?
did we become the wall,
or am i just dreaming and drifting away..
hey there little girl, where'd that smile come from?
is it sunny where you are?
and will you share some of that sky with me?
will you share, honey,
or was it never yours to give away..
hey there little girl, what's that you've got in your pocket?
would you like to share that box?
and can you keep a secret?
i think i've got a secret you can keep,
or maybe it was never mine to tell.
Wednesday, January 05, 2005
oh sinner man, where you going to run to?