Man is a dreary proposition. He's a lost form searching for function in a world that does not and never will know him. He wanders the streets of cities looking for something or the other but he will never find it—he never has.
On a wet Sunday night, I was driving home after my customary dinner at The Thatched Hut. Stuck in a traffic jam and the rain coming down harder than ever, I had nothing better to do than look out my window at a world that couldn't not be wet on a stormy night. A bus pulled over at its stop and a few people alighted. An old woman firmly gripping a knitting kit, her husband trying to keep up with her while trying to unfurl an umbrella, a prostitute whose make-up was already streaming down her cheeks—she could've been crying, and a middle-aged man carrying a bag of groceries and walking while typing something into his phone.
A bright red light caught my attention; the traffic was clearing and I began to move. Why was the prostitute crying? An affair of love? Interesting as that thought was, I realized it held no potential whatsoever beyond its curious context. Why did the crying prostitute have to be an odd proposition? That she fell in love wasn't so simple anymore—and I strongly suspected those of us who cried "Love is for everyone".
These were the men who were looking for love when it was already everywhere, and that they were looking for it meant they were looking for something specific. The man who'd made her cry could easily have been such a man, hurting from the love of a woman who had bedded other men simply because it was the matter of trades and a hungry stomach. He couldn't stand the severely non-physical love of a woman. It was strange to him, scared him, and he pushed her away.
Would she know love again? I was and am in no position to tell. Why couldn't the old woman care about the rain? I was sure her old husband was still trying to get the lever to unlock so he could open the damned umbrella. I was sure for some reason that he was only trying to look busy; men usually had a penchant for mechanisms capable of confusing most women. The umbrella would've been open much earlier if not for his avoidance of some conversation.
What could've happened? An affair, again? With the prostitute?! Unlikely. There was nothing loveable about him, for one. An inexplicable expenditure? Perhaps. As a man moves on from one era and into another, his first attempt at reorienting his senses is to coax something into obedience—he must possess something tractable. Growing up, it's a bike, a girl, a car, a job, an office, tenure, companionship, recognition, fame, pension, vacation and a death that kills him in his sleep.
The old man must have just found something he liked, something he could grip while his marriage slipped through his fingers. I wouldn't be surprised if it was the umbrella he'd invested in.
That was the lot. I wasn't much better off myself: an out-of-work writer is a nobody. I turned away from the window and just stared at the road the rest of my way home. The rain was whittling down already and the ripples were barely visible outside the umbra of hundreds of headlights.
I recalled then something I did when it rained when I was much younger, perhaps a boy of 20. I used to look at the sky and try to focus on one droplet as it came down, and I used to follow it with a keen gaze all the way to its demise on the road below my balcony. And then, I used to look up again, trying to spot my next target. I can't remember anymore why I enjoyed doing that boring exercise again and again, but I still did try to look up through the windscreen for a raindrop. I couldn't find many, and even when I did, I couldn't track it all the way. It was just the knowledge of tremendous rainclouds above my head and the firm ground on which I drove. Everything in between I took for granted, and that was something I knew I wouldn't like to be told ever.
The road was now empty—not a vehicle in sight. Driving slowly, I turned my eyes to the other side of the road. Outside a butcher's stall, a crowd waited in silence for their portions. On a piece of slate hung from the wall, "Fresh meat" was inscribed in chalk, sheltered from the past downpour by a shallow parapet that leaned over it.
Further ahead, another bus was pulling away from its stop, getting back on the road, and two boys were doggedly chasing it. They had backpacks strapped to their backs—students, getting back from classes, going by the rest of their attire. For a moment, I considered pulling over and offering them a lift, but decided against it when all those rainy nights that I'd spent waiting for the next bus to arrive came to mind. I hadn't enjoyed those nights one bit but they did teach me the value of punctuality... and how nasty colds could get.
I continued driving. A couple was walking on the sidewalk, outside a mall, holding hands while she pulled her scarf tighter around her face. Anonymity was hard to come by in cities such as this: all I had to do was walk up to them and ask for a light, and they'd already have a pretty good impression of me, my habits, my life. It was simple, really. I was and am a man in this city.
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Monday, 17 October 2011
Sunday, 14 August 2011
The site of grey
“And how many have you truly loved?” she asked.
One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”
On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.
What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.
I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).
I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.
“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.
There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?
One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”
On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.
What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.
I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).
I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.
“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.
There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?
The site of grey
“And how many have you truly loved?” she asked.
One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”
On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.
What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.
I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).
I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.
“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.
There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?
One. I definitely loved one. “None.” The lie was for other reasons, reasons irrelevant to T’s cause. I have become lonelier over the last few weeks, writing as a matter of duty, reading as a matter of choice, and revisiting my engineering courses as a matter of staying occupied. I don’t know what I feel about this ennui apart from the fact that it scares me. And when I’m scared, I retreat further into a microcosm I invent for myself. It is not a fantastic invention as much as it is a bland one. “Windows Vista is not user-friendly. I like it like that.”
On the first day at ACJ, it struck me that I was no longer the writer in/from an engineering college; I was a writer in a place filled with writers, and I was intimidated by everyone I met, accomplished as they were. I don’t think I have the time for love now. It’s not that I can’t give, it’s that I don’t know if I can. I could date, I tell T. Dating is the worst thing to eliminate loneliness, she replies, and I understand why. It consumes time, it isolates me even further.
What do I do? There is a contradicting loneliness I feel during most hours that goes against my reluctance to date anyone. Could I court anyone and feel good about it? A bland option.
I need an identity, D says. I agree. When things with R ended, I felt I had no identity outside of that relationship. I still love R, but it’s something I’m getting over inch after painful inch. The only thing about me that is still “me” is my writing. Do I need to change the way I write? Perhaps. My writing can be overtly intellectual at times, which is fine because I write to concern other intellectuals (although I myself am not one).
I’ve always felt and known that good writing must excite the senses… that it must make the reader feel what I’m feeling, see what I’m seeing, taste what I’m tasting. There should be more than a sense of wonderment, there should be a sense of awe. Good writing mustn’t exclude the reader; on the contrary, it must reach out and envelope the reader in its arms. There is a reader in the intellectual as well, but one whom I cannot see.
“Intellectuals love Dostoevsky” – I know T does – “because his understanding of the human psyche is unparalleled, and that makes him brilliant.” My understanding of the human psyche isn’t. All I know about it is that it’s twisted, dank and corrupt, and I think that’s beautiful. I believe that people should stop denying that beauty, stop trying to cloak it. That is why I can’t write about hope or joy. I’m not afraid of them, just that I find them to be sporadic interjections into the human condition that will soon leave its facade.
There is no darkness without light. Agreed, but the site of my beauty lies elsewhere. The vibrancy seen by D in colours is the vibrancy I see occupying every shade between black and white, occupying black and white themselves. I don’t limit myself from feeling them. Instead of seeing red, I see a grey that is #7299152. Instead of seeing blue, I see a grey that is #4A525A. However, D is right: I see only grey. I neither see the red nor the blue. But do D and T see my greys?
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Celebration
This is a little something for a friend who was getting married. To be frank, I wouldn’t have written it if not for her uncle.
It’s called Celebration, inspired by the Lord Tennyson’s Vastness (c. 1892).
A storm-felt sculpture not to be read,
And a bough, upon its bosom a moulder’d nest,
Astride its weary form, stood stark by the dead;
And beyond him, hung low in the West,
With one thousand rays of shadow and light,
And many in colour but only one in form,
‘Twas a baleful orb that over the gates of night,
A sun, glaring at a coming storm.
Then glided a rapturous paragon forth,
That on the passage of time had thriven;
They call’d her ‘Beauty’ here upon earth,
And the mortal engines of life in heaven.
Behold! For she sang and the people turned,
And the beauty of her voice caught like a flame
From heart to heart it sprang, and on, it burned,
Till her nobility was her soul whence it came.
The voice that sung nae deserving an old sun set,
But a sun rising in the East, in his youth!
Great and noble—oh, yes—but yet—
A man, as men everywhere are, a lover of truth
And bound to follow, wherever she goes,
Hither, thither, and up or down,
Through high hill-passes of stainless snow,
Or the foulest sewer of the town!
Noble and great—oh, aye—but then,
And here a prophet just has earned his due,
For the man was noblier-fashion’d than other men!
Lo! Shall we see to it, then, I and you,
To help the love paving their pathway still,
Until it presses into ardour the evening’s din
Behold! They rise with togetherness, and will,
Now, each others’ hearts aspire to win.
Autumns and Winters, Springs and Summers,
And all old revolutions of this good earth;
Travails of our Empire—carpentered wonders—
What is all of it worth?
Treasures are they all, if we all of us stand
Here as one, in this finest of hours,
Swallowed in mirth, and hand in hand,
To thus bear witness to the celebration of lovers!
It’s called Celebration, inspired by the Lord Tennyson’s Vastness (c. 1892).
A storm-felt sculpture not to be read,
And a bough, upon its bosom a moulder’d nest,
Astride its weary form, stood stark by the dead;
And beyond him, hung low in the West,
With one thousand rays of shadow and light,
And many in colour but only one in form,
‘Twas a baleful orb that over the gates of night,
A sun, glaring at a coming storm.
Then glided a rapturous paragon forth,
That on the passage of time had thriven;
They call’d her ‘Beauty’ here upon earth,
And the mortal engines of life in heaven.
Behold! For she sang and the people turned,
And the beauty of her voice caught like a flame
From heart to heart it sprang, and on, it burned,
Till her nobility was her soul whence it came.
The voice that sung nae deserving an old sun set,
But a sun rising in the East, in his youth!
Great and noble—oh, yes—but yet—
A man, as men everywhere are, a lover of truth
And bound to follow, wherever she goes,
Hither, thither, and up or down,
Through high hill-passes of stainless snow,
Or the foulest sewer of the town!
Noble and great—oh, aye—but then,
And here a prophet just has earned his due,
For the man was noblier-fashion’d than other men!
Lo! Shall we see to it, then, I and you,
To help the love paving their pathway still,
Until it presses into ardour the evening’s din
Behold! They rise with togetherness, and will,
Now, each others’ hearts aspire to win.
Autumns and Winters, Springs and Summers,
And all old revolutions of this good earth;
Travails of our Empire—carpentered wonders—
What is all of it worth?
Treasures are they all, if we all of us stand
Here as one, in this finest of hours,
Swallowed in mirth, and hand in hand,
To thus bear witness to the celebration of lovers!
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Dorothy & The Dingbats
Ere last evening a scene
Caught all the townsfolk's eye:
'Twas poor Billy weeping, oh!
Quoth he: "Mary loves me, but why!
Because I can dance? That lie!"
Then Dorothy raised a hand up,
And offer'd to teach down his worry:
"You'll be swinging to good music;
Behold! Mary'll swoon in a hurry,
Leaving her lonely heart in a flurry!"
So Dorothy got her shiny li'l shoes on,
And The Dingbats struck up a song!
Clapping, ev'ryone came out to watch!
They crowded round her in a throng,
But Billy was still lost; he'd stared long!
She had him watch her legs,
And danced, tra-la la-la la!
But he never got it, he didn't,
You wouldn't blame him, would ya:
She wasn't wearing a bra!
Caught all the townsfolk's eye:
'Twas poor Billy weeping, oh!
Quoth he: "Mary loves me, but why!
Because I can dance? That lie!"
Then Dorothy raised a hand up,
And offer'd to teach down his worry:
"You'll be swinging to good music;
Behold! Mary'll swoon in a hurry,
Leaving her lonely heart in a flurry!"
So Dorothy got her shiny li'l shoes on,
And The Dingbats struck up a song!
Clapping, ev'ryone came out to watch!
They crowded round her in a throng,
But Billy was still lost; he'd stared long!
She had him watch her legs,
And danced, tra-la la-la la!
But he never got it, he didn't,
You wouldn't blame him, would ya:
She wasn't wearing a bra!
Thursday, 26 May 2011
Amor dictis
People are afraid to use words.
What are they afraid of?
That they will awaken some evil?
That in the moment of putting down one word after another, something hidden behind a mental door will peek out?
Yes.
But that is why I like to write.
I want to know what is behind that door.
I want to meet it.
I want to befriend it.
If it seems good enough, I will want to become it.
I write to know myself.
The bigger words are not just fancy contrivances.
No.
They are each a separate kind of meaning.
I could say I'm "happy".
I could say I'm "gay".
I could say I'm "joyous".
I pick "joyous".
It sounds more mature.
Beyond the simple mapping of sound to meaning, there is the emotion of the sound itself.
The words you know are "sound" + "meaning".
The words I know are "sound" + "meaning" + "sensation".
Remove the "meaning" for once.
Listen to words as "sound" + "sensation".
Haven't you ever sat and listened to the calls of a nightingale?
I have.
In the forests of Yercaud in south India.
That was when I wondered.
That was when I first took away the "meaning" and discovered music.
Have you ever said "vendetta" and thought it sounded like wood being chopped by knives?
Have you ever said "fabulous" and thought of the colour green?
Have you ever said "anathematic" instead of "despicable" and thought how antihero-like it sounds?
Have you ever wondered what the timbre of a word is?
Words are both written and spoken.
Have you ever wondered how novels are successes?
They are successes because the reader is able to read what the writer is able to write.
And vice versa.
Don't be afraid to use words.
That which we have a finite supply of is wasted when used.
That which we have an infinite supply of is wasted when unused.
What are they afraid of?
That they will awaken some evil?
That in the moment of putting down one word after another, something hidden behind a mental door will peek out?
Yes.
But that is why I like to write.
I want to know what is behind that door.
I want to meet it.
I want to befriend it.
If it seems good enough, I will want to become it.
I write to know myself.
The bigger words are not just fancy contrivances.
No.
They are each a separate kind of meaning.
I could say I'm "happy".
I could say I'm "gay".
I could say I'm "joyous".
I pick "joyous".
It sounds more mature.
Beyond the simple mapping of sound to meaning, there is the emotion of the sound itself.
The words you know are "sound" + "meaning".
The words I know are "sound" + "meaning" + "sensation".
Remove the "meaning" for once.
Listen to words as "sound" + "sensation".
Haven't you ever sat and listened to the calls of a nightingale?
I have.
In the forests of Yercaud in south India.
That was when I wondered.
That was when I first took away the "meaning" and discovered music.
Have you ever said "vendetta" and thought it sounded like wood being chopped by knives?
Have you ever said "fabulous" and thought of the colour green?
Have you ever said "anathematic" instead of "despicable" and thought how antihero-like it sounds?
Have you ever wondered what the timbre of a word is?
Words are both written and spoken.
Have you ever wondered how novels are successes?
They are successes because the reader is able to read what the writer is able to write.
And vice versa.
Don't be afraid to use words.
That which we have a finite supply of is wasted when used.
That which we have an infinite supply of is wasted when unused.
Amor dictis
People are afraid to use words.
What are they afraid of?
That they will awaken some evil?
That in the moment of putting down one word after another, something hidden behind a mental door will peek out?
Yes.
But that is why I like to write.
I want to know what is behind that door.
I want to meet it.
I want to befriend it.
If it seems good enough, I will want to become it.
I write to know myself.
The bigger words are not just fancy contrivances.
No.
They are each a separate kind of meaning.
I could say I'm "happy".
I could say I'm "gay".
I could say I'm "joyous".
I pick "joyous".
It sounds more mature.
Beyond the simple mapping of sound to meaning, there is the emotion of the sound itself.
The words you know are "sound" + "meaning".
The words I know are "sound" + "meaning" + "sensation".
Remove the "meaning" for once.
Listen to words as "sound" + "sensation".
Haven't you ever sat and listened to the calls of a nightingale?
I have.
In the forests of Yercaud in south India.
That was when I wondered.
That was when I first took away the "meaning" and discovered music.
Have you ever said "vendetta" and thought it sounded like wood being chopped by knives?
Have you ever said "fabulous" and thought of the colour green?
Have you ever said "anathematic" instead of "despicable" and thought how antihero-like it sounds?
Have you ever wondered what the timbre of a word is?
Words are both written and spoken.
Have you ever wondered how novels are successes?
They are successes because the reader is able to read what the writer is able to write.
And vice versa.
Don't be afraid to use words.
That which we have a finite supply of is wasted when used.
That which we have an infinite supply of is wasted when unused.
What are they afraid of?
That they will awaken some evil?
That in the moment of putting down one word after another, something hidden behind a mental door will peek out?
Yes.
But that is why I like to write.
I want to know what is behind that door.
I want to meet it.
I want to befriend it.
If it seems good enough, I will want to become it.
I write to know myself.
The bigger words are not just fancy contrivances.
No.
They are each a separate kind of meaning.
I could say I'm "happy".
I could say I'm "gay".
I could say I'm "joyous".
I pick "joyous".
It sounds more mature.
Beyond the simple mapping of sound to meaning, there is the emotion of the sound itself.
The words you know are "sound" + "meaning".
The words I know are "sound" + "meaning" + "sensation".
Remove the "meaning" for once.
Listen to words as "sound" + "sensation".
Haven't you ever sat and listened to the calls of a nightingale?
I have.
In the forests of Yercaud in south India.
That was when I wondered.
That was when I first took away the "meaning" and discovered music.
Have you ever said "vendetta" and thought it sounded like wood being chopped by knives?
Have you ever said "fabulous" and thought of the colour green?
Have you ever said "anathematic" instead of "despicable" and thought how antihero-like it sounds?
Have you ever wondered what the timbre of a word is?
Words are both written and spoken.
Have you ever wondered how novels are successes?
They are successes because the reader is able to read what the writer is able to write.
And vice versa.
Don't be afraid to use words.
That which we have a finite supply of is wasted when used.
That which we have an infinite supply of is wasted when unused.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
The Story of Theora Vorbis
There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
The Story of Theora Vorbis
There! There is a home, where there is mother,
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Mother who must cook and wash and clean.
There! In that home, there is a father,
Father who must work and earn and sweat.
In the ramshackle glory of the kingdom we ruled
My brothers and I were daily taught and fooled
That money is all there is and nothing better!
There! There is a family whose memories I recall,
As they are all the experiences I fall back on.
There! In that family where the dreams are small
Was the push to break free and seek tomorrow
In the hope of owning one day a wealthy man
Who would provide and support like none else can.
I didn't learn of dreams or the sound of their call!
Here! Here is a home, where there is a mother,
Mother who must read and listen and, oh, rejoice.
Here! In this home, there is a father,
Father who must dote and lavish and dance.
Because there was suddenly wealth in our eyes and ears,
And with that were gone all of our filthy tears
For money is all there was and nothing better!
Here! Here is a family where togetherness holds sway
Even as Charlie sails the seas and David flies the skies.
But mother and father decide that they will stay,
And pay humble tribute to the lords of fortunes.
Coins in father's pocket sink him into the chair low
Even though I wait for him to hug me when I go.
If I could I would... I'd wish it all away!
Thursday, 12 May 2011
Monday, 2 May 2011
Crest of a knave: A short story
Listen to my story, all ye assembled here in this hall of gold, listen to my story before I set forth with the lust for glory and decay in my blood boils over, its wrath absterging all shreds of loyalty and honour in me. Listen to my story, all ye assembled in this hall of light, for you would hold me devious culprit in this dark affair of travesty and injustice whereas I would hold myself, sans lea or passage, owed the duty of the last word before your judgment scars my destiny forever.
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
A thousand years ago, while I was still a young man of speed and spirit, I loved a woman of Troban beyond the wishes of my father or hers, and we were discoverers of joy unbounded in the arms of the other and wished, fools that we were, that it would remain so, impenetrable by the poisoned spears of our warrior-brothers or reigned back by the ties we still cherished with our mothers or by the religion that sought to punish us all for the evils of our forefathers; you remember the times, lords and ladies, you do, I know! Those were horrible days of great loss and much deplorable grief, days when freedom faded quickly from memory to return with the intoxicating fumes of khalam only at night.
Our companionship, as has always been, was soon sighted, slighted, condemned for no other reason than the rifts within our peoples, and me and she were soon flung apart, reprimanded and whipped until our flesh burned red with the fire of agony, disappointment and the promise we made unto ourselves repeatedly that there would come a day when our spirits would be reawakened by another foe, a promise that we would succumb to the threat of mortality that always spurs us on against another man, a promise that we would take up spear and shield, sword and gauntlet, and fight to the death all the men who stood between me and her, who stood between her and me.
However, that was not to be so, for soon, she was in love with another man. Oh, the sacrilege rent my heart in two and its tears flooded, I was stricken with not the monstrous affront to my being but quite something else, a curious mixture of acceptance and depravity, as if I had been rewarded with the admonishment of a great father who, with one hand, struck me down and taught me a lesson and, with another, picked me up and dared to walk; I knew not what to do, for she was no longer mine and the saddening truth of that alone lingered in all its palatable cruelty. That he was a great warrior of Troban meant nothing to me for I knew already that he would be the last to be slain as she must and will watch on, the death of a lover, a commemoration of the execution of love itself.
Soon, circumstance bore down upon me, carrying upon their broad shoulders much fortune, and I was swept like a broken vessel upon a strong tide to different shores, vast shores, peopled not with memories nor judgments but with purpose and direction, led by a great king in whose services I found employ and my faith once more in the need for allegiance and friendship in our bloodied lands. Here I stand before you, a great minister of the King of all Troban, and I, his aide, his confidante, his friend, his advisor, his hand that throws down only so it may pick up once more the young man it sought to make an example of all those years ago, and the woman you now see standing before you, pleading unto you that I be imprisoned for all that I have brought upon her... that woman... that woman...
Her husband, that man, that veteran, or thus she would hold, of many, many wars, hundreds of battles, he is now captured by the Lords of the Cult, and now she pleads unto you to imprison me, to sacrifice me unto your foes so she may remit what she herself broke. What would you do? What would you do?! Would you lock me behind bars and set me forth in a vessel so I may be received by my torturers and executioners or would you have me stand guard into the night? Would you handicap I, only a man, for the sake of his youthful follies and now besmirch all his sacrifices or would you give me my freedom only once more as I ask her... as I ask her...
Do you want me to save your lover? Do you want me to be the man you hated, the man you despised, because he valued justice more than concern so you could betray his love and seek consolation in the arms of another? Or would you rather that I was the man you were with once, and have me be the saviour you so direly seek?
*
Simpler version
Listen to me, all you folks assembled here, before you go about besmirching my name! I've a story to tell before you listen to the words of the woman before you and pass a judgment that'd only be made with incomplete information. After all, I am owed a word before I am punished.
Long ago, I loved a woman of Troban, and neither of our fathers were supportive of it. It was a terrible time, what with all the civil wars and other such needless battles causing more rifts than we needed. In each other's arms, we found the relief we really needed at the time, and not only did we find it, but we were entranced by it.
Needless to say, our fathers found out about it and tore us apart, calling upon all sorts of religious rites and says to condemn us further; they used us to vent the anger they bore for the world around. We might've understood their wrath, but what I knew I'd always hate and avenge was the wrath of the people who stood by my father on the day he passed judgment on us. That day, I swore I'd slay them all even if at the price of my honour.
Soon, however, something happed that left me like a shattered mirror: seeing with a thousand eyes the horror of her walking hand-in-hand with another man, another lover, so soon after we were forced to leave each other's side. I didn't what to do then, I didn't understand it, but I only told myself that this man would also die by my blade. He'd die while she watches him bleed.
After that, my fortunes in trade and other things began to pick up and I set off on a journey to a new city. All the people there were new to me. I knew then that they didn't deserve my blighted past, they didn't deserve to be at the brunt of my voiceless rage. I changed my lifestyle, I changed the way I was; I became more responsible and soon was employed by the King.
Now, I'm your minister, and your King's right-hand man. I've stood by you all, protecting you, saving you, nourishing you, pushing you to seek your dreams without fearing any foe. Now, this woman here is that lover I spoke of, and now, she tells you all to sacrifice me as ransom so she can get back her lover from those who've captured him.
He was a man of courage she said, and now, as fate would have it, the blade at his throat pierces at my will. Now, I ask you to tell me if I still will have your mercy and be allowed to decide for myself... whether I choose to mend my heart and leave it broken for your sake. Having known you good men and women for so long, I will take the liberty to assume a just answer.
Now, woman, I ask you: I was once a man who cared for justice, and that was the man you hated; I was once a man who cared for love, and that was the man you loved. Who do you want me to be now? Do you want me to be the one you hated so you can feel fine about leaving me? Or do you want me to be the man you loved so he can save your lover?
Saturday, 5 March 2011
Ode To An Ex
Found in an old chat log.
--
I'm always wrong and you're always right,
When I come looking you're out of sight!
I could be done with your rapidfire crap,
But I'm only waiting for the jaws of the trap!
When you talk so much you fucking blink
Like a skunk let loose a quick fucking stink.
You think you're a smart and pretty lass but
Your birdbrain's buried in yo ex's horny ass.
Throwing pillows like you're a cute little girl
Show babydoll your bra and she's gonna hurl
We're waiting to yell when you walk down that street
Reply beetch! Reply beetch!
--
I'm always wrong and you're always right,
When I come looking you're out of sight!
I could be done with your rapidfire crap,
But I'm only waiting for the jaws of the trap!
When you talk so much you fucking blink
Like a skunk let loose a quick fucking stink.
You think you're a smart and pretty lass but
Your birdbrain's buried in yo ex's horny ass.
Throwing pillows like you're a cute little girl
Show babydoll your bra and she's gonna hurl
We're waiting to yell when you walk down that street
Reply beetch! Reply beetch!
Friday, 4 March 2011
A Suicide Note Inspired, Ironically, By A Strange Dream
I'm...
Becoming more and more lost by the day.
Do I need a lover?
Maybe, maybe no.
Actually, I don't need anyone.
I just need a cistern of depression.
I need to have conversations that might lead elsewhere from time to time.
I just need someone to enforce my fantasies upon.
To find appreciation for my effort.
To be the centre of attention.
It's not that I would do anything to get there.
I'm not a psychopath.
At least, not yet.
But it does seem to help from time to time if I receive the amount of attention I think I deserve.
I know I'm not asking for much.
When I know that there's so much to be given.
My peers tell me that I dance so well.
But I don't think any of them mean that honestly.
They've taken the notion of friendship, even of familiarity, quite too far.
They've mired it in their own need for politeness.
For gentleness, for care.
To be paid attention to.
Mired it so much that if another being were to ask for the truth, they wouldn't know what it meant.
They'd think that they were saying it.
They'd think that they'd all be like them.
That what was the truth for them would be the truth for everyone else.
It's not the truth anymore.
It's one very big lie.
There was this woman I... loved... some time ago.
She appreciated me for my dreams without even understanding them.
I know it is to be expected, to say the least.
I have to concede that some of my cantatas are astounding.
They are.
But judging that all of them will be is stupidity.
Or is it? I don't know.
It ought to be stupidity.
That's what I think.
If you don't think I dance well then tell me I don't dance well.
If you don't think I'm doing it right then tell me I'm not doing it right.
Why tell me I am doing it right?
Why egg me on?
That's not going to teach me anything.
It's only going to drag me deeper and deeper.
Lower and lower into a spiral of mistakes.
At one point from which I will not be able to recover.
And who will I have to blame?
Only myself.
I cannot blame those who lied to me.
I can blame only myself because I gave their opinions and judgments any weight.
I want to be paid attention to.
At the same time, I want valid attention.
I want truthful attention.
And for that, I will have to be valuable.
I will have to be credibly valuable.
I will have to be incredibly valuable.
And for value to come to life, life must be devalued first.
Devalued first...
Becoming more and more lost by the day.
Do I need a lover?
Maybe, maybe no.
Actually, I don't need anyone.
I just need a cistern of depression.
I need to have conversations that might lead elsewhere from time to time.
I just need someone to enforce my fantasies upon.
To find appreciation for my effort.
To be the centre of attention.
It's not that I would do anything to get there.
I'm not a psychopath.
At least, not yet.
But it does seem to help from time to time if I receive the amount of attention I think I deserve.
I know I'm not asking for much.
When I know that there's so much to be given.
My peers tell me that I dance so well.
But I don't think any of them mean that honestly.
They've taken the notion of friendship, even of familiarity, quite too far.
They've mired it in their own need for politeness.
For gentleness, for care.
To be paid attention to.
Mired it so much that if another being were to ask for the truth, they wouldn't know what it meant.
They'd think that they were saying it.
They'd think that they'd all be like them.
That what was the truth for them would be the truth for everyone else.
It's not the truth anymore.
It's one very big lie.
There was this woman I... loved... some time ago.
She appreciated me for my dreams without even understanding them.
I know it is to be expected, to say the least.
I have to concede that some of my cantatas are astounding.
They are.
But judging that all of them will be is stupidity.
Or is it? I don't know.
It ought to be stupidity.
That's what I think.
If you don't think I dance well then tell me I don't dance well.
If you don't think I'm doing it right then tell me I'm not doing it right.
Why tell me I am doing it right?
Why egg me on?
That's not going to teach me anything.
It's only going to drag me deeper and deeper.
Lower and lower into a spiral of mistakes.
At one point from which I will not be able to recover.
And who will I have to blame?
Only myself.
I cannot blame those who lied to me.
I can blame only myself because I gave their opinions and judgments any weight.
I want to be paid attention to.
At the same time, I want valid attention.
I want truthful attention.
And for that, I will have to be valuable.
I will have to be credibly valuable.
I will have to be incredibly valuable.
And for value to come to life, life must be devalued first.
Devalued first...
Monday, 28 February 2011
The Voice
There are many different kinds of voices. Some you can hear, some you can't, some that seem to boom into your cavernous head from all sides, some that seem to sprout from the centre, some that come and go as they wish, some that you bump headlong into like an innocuous but ubiquitous lamppost. Then, there are those voices that are not inside your head at all, but at the other end of the phone call you're attending to right now.
These voices have bodies, I'm given to believe, something to which a head is affixed to, and through the head, words are spoken. For the record, I don't like spoken words. One moment they're there, the next moment they're gone. I hate that kind of indecisiveness - unless of course they're forced into a small box called a "voice recorder" or if they're carved into stone by a manic engraver. The voice in my earpiece is now telling me about what a bad morning it had.
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Early morning... blues?"]
[/caption]
How do voices have bad mornings? Are they blown out into the world through a snot-smeared windpipe? Or do they bear messages as murky as the mind that conceived them? Actually, the voice in my ear seemed to be suffering both maladies: expletives four to fourteen letters long were clamoring for an audience with blatant disregard for the Doppler effect, and the immutable moss-green of the phlegm I could almost hear.
Whether voices can have bad mornings or not, I can. I was having one then and there. First call I get in the morning is from a "friend" complaining about how her HDD crashed and how I could be responsible for it. I was stupefied when I heard that, and when she went on to inform me that the catastrophe befell her after I forwarded an email from Reuters, I snorted. That was the signal, I'm thinking, for the barrage of mucosal sludge.
Even so, I don't like being looked down upon or frowned upon for hitting out at a messenger who's brought me bad news. That is unfair, to expect a receiver to receive all kinds of glop and remain silent. Come to think of it, that'd be the psychopathic silently-thinking cold-bloodedly-conspiring contemplatively thumb-twiddling Mephistopheles down the hall. An honest man should be allowed to lash out, to have it over with. The mistake lies with the dolt who set the messenger on his journey. He didn't sponsor any armour.
What can you do against voices? What can you do against something that seems to come from a head far, far away? You can shout back, sure, but that's head versus head. Can you trap voices in small black boxes? I don't think so. What's going to be in the box when you reopen it later is a rant without beginning or end, eviscerated neatly out of a morning it had sought to destroy but now, doing nothing to the evening.
How do you knock the serrated stiletto out of a voice that's waiting to stab you in the back?
These voices have bodies, I'm given to believe, something to which a head is affixed to, and through the head, words are spoken. For the record, I don't like spoken words. One moment they're there, the next moment they're gone. I hate that kind of indecisiveness - unless of course they're forced into a small box called a "voice recorder" or if they're carved into stone by a manic engraver. The voice in my earpiece is now telling me about what a bad morning it had.
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Early morning... blues?"]
[/caption]How do voices have bad mornings? Are they blown out into the world through a snot-smeared windpipe? Or do they bear messages as murky as the mind that conceived them? Actually, the voice in my ear seemed to be suffering both maladies: expletives four to fourteen letters long were clamoring for an audience with blatant disregard for the Doppler effect, and the immutable moss-green of the phlegm I could almost hear.
Whether voices can have bad mornings or not, I can. I was having one then and there. First call I get in the morning is from a "friend" complaining about how her HDD crashed and how I could be responsible for it. I was stupefied when I heard that, and when she went on to inform me that the catastrophe befell her after I forwarded an email from Reuters, I snorted. That was the signal, I'm thinking, for the barrage of mucosal sludge.
Even so, I don't like being looked down upon or frowned upon for hitting out at a messenger who's brought me bad news. That is unfair, to expect a receiver to receive all kinds of glop and remain silent. Come to think of it, that'd be the psychopathic silently-thinking cold-bloodedly-conspiring contemplatively thumb-twiddling Mephistopheles down the hall. An honest man should be allowed to lash out, to have it over with. The mistake lies with the dolt who set the messenger on his journey. He didn't sponsor any armour.
What can you do against voices? What can you do against something that seems to come from a head far, far away? You can shout back, sure, but that's head versus head. Can you trap voices in small black boxes? I don't think so. What's going to be in the box when you reopen it later is a rant without beginning or end, eviscerated neatly out of a morning it had sought to destroy but now, doing nothing to the evening.
How do you knock the serrated stiletto out of a voice that's waiting to stab you in the back?
Sunday, 13 February 2011
The Perfect Girl Myth
I’ve had enough Valentine’s Days to know what the stresses are on an honest man’s purse. More often than not, the oh-so-ideal woman, which you have every way of knowing at first sight, will pout, glower and moue until she has your attention.From there, things take a number of different routes all of which subside on this ill-fated day, the 14th of every February. Who knows, she might not give a damn about the gold in your pockets, she might actually have that “full-sized aortic pump”, or she might just be the girl-next-door who prides in dusting desks and arranging flowers in vases – giving you a 75% chance that she’s the one you’re looking for. Men never are frank and transparent about their intentions: none of us are assholes, and that means we’re always the exactly the same person who some lucky women think we are. No calculations, no fuss.
This Valentine’s Day, I wish you all the superb luck of –ing up. After all, it is nothing more than a case of “once bitten, twice shy”. It’s something you can do again and again, and you’ll never be left with a cynicism, nothing that can ever be devastating in the context of all future relationships, keeping the amount of trust you can place in another man or woman at those same abuse-worthy levels. This Valentine’s Day, before locking your eyes or your arms with another “soul”, make sure you’re hemmed in from all sides, that every movement of yours is followed around by indubious eyes, that if you ever had anything to say, you were never allowed to say it all. Otherwise, you see, it might be the “perfect girl” that generations of men have been looking for through the ages, and they’re all mythical.
No one said it better than Kanye West.
This year, I wish you a SAFE Valentine's Day. Condoms can only do so much.
This Valentine’s Day, I wish you all the superb luck of –ing up. After all, it is nothing more than a case of “once bitten, twice shy”. It’s something you can do again and again, and you’ll never be left with a cynicism, nothing that can ever be devastating in the context of all future relationships, keeping the amount of trust you can place in another man or woman at those same abuse-worthy levels. This Valentine’s Day, before locking your eyes or your arms with another “soul”, make sure you’re hemmed in from all sides, that every movement of yours is followed around by indubious eyes, that if you ever had anything to say, you were never allowed to say it all. Otherwise, you see, it might be the “perfect girl” that generations of men have been looking for through the ages, and they’re all mythical.
No one said it better than Kanye West.
This year, I wish you a SAFE Valentine's Day. Condoms can only do so much.
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