11.26
Dialing...
"Hello?"
Hey!
"Hey!"
What're you doing?
"I'm outside with-"
Oh, OK! We'll talk later!
"Yeah, sure!"
Bye!
"Bye!"
12.24
Dialing...
"You don't have enough credit-"
12.31
Dialing...
"The person you are calling has not responded. Please try-"
14.10
Picking...
Hello?
"Hey buddy! What's up!"
Hey man... how's it going?
"Awesome! Listen, me and C planning a trek. You wanna come?"
When's it?
"Tonight. We're thinking of catching the 8 o'clock bus and-"
Not tonight, sorry. Have some work.
"Saturday night?"
Dad's coming online, some work to do with the bank, something.
"Oh, OK! Next time then!"
Yeah man, sorry. Call-
"Bye!"
14.33
Dialing...
"The person you are calling has-"
15.04
Signing in...
"L. is online."
Laptop?
L: "Nt yet happened."
Damn. :(
L: "Yeah. I'm fucked."
Sleepover at S.'s place and finish the assignment?
And then tell me about the pillowfight?
L: "Heh. She lives all the way across town!"
Fine. P.?
L: "Uh. No."
K.?
L: "Oh wow."
"Hahhahahahhaha its K.!"
:D
What doing?
L: "Painting."
"Ur sheldon from big bang theory."
I'm Sheldon?!
That guy's stiff, a creature of habit and annoying!
I'm not annoying!
L: "You're stiff. Creature of habit. A know it all. ALL."
Sheldon Cooper is annoying and unforgiving. I am neither!
And he's not interested in sex. He's NOT interested- THAT'S ANTI-ME!
L: "Okay :P"
":P"
"Okay. And that."
The place here's a huge bungalow with no curfew and careless watchman.
L: "Fancy :P"
"Ur outside? Not with family?"
No, any studying requires the hostel experience.
Can't study for nuts from home - even this.
It's going to be crazy!
L: ":)"
"Did you make friends?"
This chick
L: "Really??"
Yeah!
But she's off FB for a while.
L: "Ahaan"
You are no longer signed in to send or receive messages.
15.55
"Hello?"
Sir, I'm calling from the south-
"Yes, sir, we're sorry sir. It's an area-wide cut, sir, there's a fire in the grid."
When will-
"In about 4 hours, sir."
16.16
Opening...
Yes?
"Sir, delivery from Amazon?"
Oh, yes!
"Sign here... and here."
Thanks!
"Thank you, sir!"
18.01
Dialing...
"The person you are-"
19.29
Wireless network... connected.
19.31
Signing in...
"L. is offline"
Hey! You there? Sorry, there was a power cut. I'll catchya soon, have a nice evening!
19.44
Coming.
"Good evening, sir! Delivery from Dumpling Queen!"
Oh yeah, how much is it?
"A round... 60, sir."
Keep the change.
"Thank you, sir! Enjoy your dinner!"
Yeah.
20.34
Dialing...
"Hello?"
Hey!
"Hey!"
What're you doing?
"I'm on my way!"
Oh, when'll you be here?
"In a coupla minutes, max. How's it going there... you OK?"
Yeah... I'm fine. Just missing you.
"I miss you, too."
Couldn't you blow off the late night shift?
"Aww! Look at you!"
I'm serious!
"You know I can't do that! Plus, it's Saturday... you know how busy the streets get!"
Yeah, yeah, OK. Get here faster.
"Yeah, I'm almost there."
OK.
23.15
"It's getting late."
Hmm...
"I'll talk to you tomorrow!"
I hate you.
"Me too! G'night!"
Yeah, whatever.
07.14
Picking...
Hmm... who's this?
"Hey!"
Yeah?
"It's me! You just woke up?!"
Yeah...
"Please tell me you've the script ready!"
Yeah... almost-
"Almost?! What's almost?!"
Gimme an hour.
"Are you sure? Because if you haven't finished it, you should tell me now."
No, no, one hour. You'll have it.
"OK, I trust you. Don't lemme down, man."
Hmm.
07.19
Somewhere in the south of the great City, curled up within layers of poverty, rebellion, filth and convivial skulduggery, in a building dotting the ramshackle landscape of the miserable shores, a young man strode up and down upon an old carpet, one of the few things of value in his otherwise poor excuse of a residence. At this juncture, the reader may not be surprised to discover upon my utterance that he was a writer - he still is - and took away from the denial of luxury the luxury of denial, a self-imposed lesson on the art of inspiration, coveting lovers and dodging them, befriending strangers and salvaging himself from the hubris of his own madness. Right then, as the first droplets of rain struck the glass in the windows, he called a young woman he was attempting now to love, and she spoke: "I'm outside with-" Goodbye, he screamed! Despair! On the philanthropy of despair it seemed he would feed first...
08.03
Picking...
"You done?"
What if I'm not?
"Man! I trusted-"
Relax! I'm done.
"Hmm... what's it called?"
The Art... of Inspiration! You like it?
"I think I do... I do, I do."
Showing posts with label sorrow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sorrow. Show all posts
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
The fifth traveler
At the edge of civilization,
Where it was raining day and night,
We decided to bury our our feud and join
Each other on the road thereafter.
Now John he was a guitarist
And struck up a tune
That traveled with us as the fourth traveler;
The sound of its music was like the rain,
Trespassing our loneliness like a silent killer.
As we walked we saw an old man
Sitting in a raincoat 'neath a tree:
He lit up a cold smoke.
Its orange light swam the wrinkles of his hand.
He looked long at us searching for an open ear
Into which he'd crawl to escape the shifting sands.
But we had no time for talk or play
Even though we had nowhere to go
Because each of us knew
That he was in a place where he'd like to stay,
Where the knowing silence of death stalked us,
And the temples were where we wanted to pray.
Gently we came upon a fallen tree,
Uprooted by the fury of an ancient storm,
Its leaves and boughs scattered.
Our journey seemed over in that shadowy sea,
And we rested our backs against the wood,
Finally with that silent surrender becoming free.
And John he finally let his eyes weep
For the loss of a friend long ago;
We tried to hold him down.
His sorrow in the dark was our treasure to keep;
He smashed his guitar there and fell down crying,
And there we lay fear our fifth traveler to sleep.
Where it was raining day and night,
We decided to bury our our feud and join
Each other on the road thereafter.
Now John he was a guitarist
And struck up a tune
That traveled with us as the fourth traveler;
The sound of its music was like the rain,
Trespassing our loneliness like a silent killer.
As we walked we saw an old man
Sitting in a raincoat 'neath a tree:
He lit up a cold smoke.
Its orange light swam the wrinkles of his hand.
He looked long at us searching for an open ear
Into which he'd crawl to escape the shifting sands.
But we had no time for talk or play
Even though we had nowhere to go
Because each of us knew
That he was in a place where he'd like to stay,
Where the knowing silence of death stalked us,
And the temples were where we wanted to pray.
Gently we came upon a fallen tree,
Uprooted by the fury of an ancient storm,
Its leaves and boughs scattered.
Our journey seemed over in that shadowy sea,
And we rested our backs against the wood,
Finally with that silent surrender becoming free.
And John he finally let his eyes weep
For the loss of a friend long ago;
We tried to hold him down.
His sorrow in the dark was our treasure to keep;
He smashed his guitar there and fell down crying,
And there we lay fear our fifth traveler to sleep.
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
The sons of Moirai
When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
The sons of Moirai
When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.
Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.
The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.
That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Das Opfer des schwarzen Blutes
Denken Sie nicht über die Wahrheit, mein Kind,
Die Dunkelheit ist notwendig für unsere Augen!
Wo sind wir zu gehen, wenn wir nicht wissen, Krieg?
Wo können wir gehen, wenn es keine Straßen?
Lass dich nicht von den Geräuschen, Kind, Angst
Halten Sie alle Ihre Ängste auslaufen
In den Frauen, die Träume haben für Kinder,
In die Herzen der Unwissenden und Ohren.
Hurt sich selbst und lassen den Blutfluss, Kind,
Weil sie werden für immer die dummen Affen!
Die Wissenschaften sind Sie wissen Geheimnisse
Welche von ihren kleinen Herzen verschwinden!
Leg deinen Kopf auf meinen Schoß und weinen, Kind,
Damit die Menschen können niemals lernen,
Von Ihrem Opfer, das notwendig ist für die Zukunft,
Die Lehren, die Sie für heute abend sterben müssen!
*
Translation
The sacrifice of black blood
Do not think about the truth, my child,
The darkness is necessary for our eyes!
Where do we go when we know not war?
Where can we go if there are no roads?
Do not fear the noise, child,
Leave behind all your fears
For women who have dreams for children,
To spill into the hearts of the ignorant and ears.
Hurt yourself and let the blood flow, child,
Because they will forever be the silly monkeys!
The science you now know are the secrets
Which must disappear from their little hearts!
Lay your head on my lap and cry, child,
So that people may never learn
From your sacrifice, that is necessary for the future,
The lessons that you have to die for tonight!
Das Opfer des schwarzen Blutes
Denken Sie nicht über die Wahrheit, mein Kind,
Die Dunkelheit ist notwendig für unsere Augen!
Wo sind wir zu gehen, wenn wir nicht wissen, Krieg?
Wo können wir gehen, wenn es keine Straßen?
Lass dich nicht von den Geräuschen, Kind, Angst
Halten Sie alle Ihre Ängste auslaufen
In den Frauen, die Träume haben für Kinder,
In die Herzen der Unwissenden und Ohren.
Hurt sich selbst und lassen den Blutfluss, Kind,
Weil sie werden für immer die dummen Affen!
Die Wissenschaften sind Sie wissen Geheimnisse
Welche von ihren kleinen Herzen verschwinden!
Leg deinen Kopf auf meinen Schoß und weinen, Kind,
Damit die Menschen können niemals lernen,
Von Ihrem Opfer, das notwendig ist für die Zukunft,
Die Lehren, die Sie für heute abend sterben müssen!
*
Translation
The sacrifice of black blood
Do not think about the truth, my child,
The darkness is necessary for our eyes!
Where do we go when we know not war?
Where can we go if there are no roads?
Do not fear the noise, child,
Leave behind all your fears
For women who have dreams for children,
To spill into the hearts of the ignorant and ears.
Hurt yourself and let the blood flow, child,
Because they will forever be the silly monkeys!
The science you now know are the secrets
Which must disappear from their little hearts!
Lay your head on my lap and cry, child,
So that people may never learn
From your sacrifice, that is necessary for the future,
The lessons that you have to die for tonight!
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Orison of the knowing
Welcome home to this world, this world that makes us;
The world is the land beneath the road that takes us
On the journey we so often seek to undertake
Unto cities of gold where lie the fortunes we must make!
The world is the name of the cross that aches us;
The world is the home of the foe that stakes us;
Here we with memories bury the hatchet of hate
When our golden dreams fall to the ground insatiate!
The world is the hue of the blindness that breaks us;
The world is the shade of turmoil that shakes us;
Only here rests the unseen good of an unseen god
But punishment–oh yes–must be with a firing squad!
Such is the reward of this world that baits us
Guarding our treasure with trying fate it awaits us!
It is no longer the world that once remained our own;
'Tis the sole truth to the ignorant we must make known!
The world is the land beneath the road that takes us
On the journey we so often seek to undertake
Unto cities of gold where lie the fortunes we must make!
The world is the name of the cross that aches us;
The world is the home of the foe that stakes us;
Here we with memories bury the hatchet of hate
When our golden dreams fall to the ground insatiate!
The world is the hue of the blindness that breaks us;
The world is the shade of turmoil that shakes us;
Only here rests the unseen good of an unseen god
But punishment–oh yes–must be with a firing squad!
Such is the reward of this world that baits us
Guarding our treasure with trying fate it awaits us!
It is no longer the world that once remained our own;
'Tis the sole truth to the ignorant we must make known!
Wednesday, 6 April 2011
The Litany Of Delay
Sadness ascends to choose one more time /
Comes round again and no one to tempt /
Even though I ran to the delicious /
Liberty to calculate what I should but /
Will not tolerate the desperation to control /
Am able to give and sink in deeper /
To define it and find it and hide it /
We're sinking deeper despite it /
Let me show you everything I found back home /
Let me teach you to lie like a child /
Soon will you choose to let this go /
Choose to make us give away the strong /
Let the wanderers kiss and drown /
As Lenin crushes his beasts into gold /
Inking any kind of blurry papers for my disguise /
Can I hope to sell this dreary dream /
Television escapes me delaying the fearful /
Is this a test that has to be so delightful as /
Dreaming creations dying on the edges of squares /
I don't realize I am dying not old, not young /
Right and slow right here to give it like blood /
Right here I am still in blood giving faith /
Sight me later than some wonderful supermoon /
Wandering nightly and waiting all the other time /
People have no desire whatsoever to heal /
Damn it! We're all alone and this is the time /
The spirits of the night have chosen me /
Soiled with my name in a diseased clay /
Where will we go without patients to heal /
Tuesday has come and soon Tuesday will die /
Think you of the fact that a deaf person cannot hear /
Then, what deafness may we not all possess? /
What senses do we lack that we cannot see /
And cannot hear another world all around us /
What is there around us that we cannot? /
Comes round again and no one to tempt /
Even though I ran to the delicious /
Liberty to calculate what I should but /
Will not tolerate the desperation to control /
Am able to give and sink in deeper /
To define it and find it and hide it /
We're sinking deeper despite it /
Let me show you everything I found back home /
Let me teach you to lie like a child /
Soon will you choose to let this go /
Choose to make us give away the strong /
Let the wanderers kiss and drown /
As Lenin crushes his beasts into gold /
Inking any kind of blurry papers for my disguise /
Can I hope to sell this dreary dream /
Television escapes me delaying the fearful /
Is this a test that has to be so delightful as /
Dreaming creations dying on the edges of squares /
I don't realize I am dying not old, not young /
Right and slow right here to give it like blood /
Right here I am still in blood giving faith /
Sight me later than some wonderful supermoon /
Wandering nightly and waiting all the other time /
People have no desire whatsoever to heal /
Damn it! We're all alone and this is the time /
The spirits of the night have chosen me /
Soiled with my name in a diseased clay /
Where will we go without patients to heal /
Tuesday has come and soon Tuesday will die /
Think you of the fact that a deaf person cannot hear /
Then, what deafness may we not all possess? /
What senses do we lack that we cannot see /
And cannot hear another world all around us /
What is there around us that we cannot? /
Monday, 17 January 2011
Nasty Naiccus: A short story
The light from the lantern he was holding flickered whimsically, alerting us to a reordering of drafts within the narrow tunnel. It meant a train was going to pass that way soon; it also meant that if I didn't alert him about it, he wouldn't be able to stand up straight in time and save his spine from being splintered. The uneven texture underfoot made it all the more harder to stand, just stand, and hold the lantern aloft, succintly guiding the light onto the surface he cast a shadow on. Sometimes, it was this way, and the very next second, it was that. He would grunt if I was late in the catching up; he would mumble about some accidental explosion in his valley that had destroyed half a town; he would mumble about me stepping on the long fuse-wire next if I so much as shifted the weight on my feet. Even while working in the mining shafts on either sides of the valley, he was an ill-tempered anarchist, complaining about something or the other. He wasn't wholly to blame: anyone would if their wife cheated on the husband with his boss on the same day her mother-in-law died. Naiccus Arpath did not shed a single tear or bellow a single curse, he just stopped talking about the world the way he did and started going to church. There, all the Rev. Ross Punter had to do was preach his soggily religious drivel into Naiccus' infecund skull and here they were, two of the best men on the fuse about to blow up a railyway line.
The flame trembled and Naiccus caught the movement before I did, standing up in time to look at me with bloodshot eyes, the little windows shooting past not before they cast a seemingly flickering gleam in his eyes. He grunted his disapproval, I could only stare straight ahead with as much straightlacedness as I could muster. It was not right to argue with Nasty Naiccus, everyone knew that. As soon as the locomotive had exhausted its thundering advertisement of promise and opportunity in this side of the world, he went back to checking the fuse for one last time. It was proper; of course it was, Naiccus Arpath had fixed it, and when men who have a grudge not against their wives or bosses but against the world rig railway lines to blow up when innocent people are passing overhead, it is more often than not that they WILL blow up.
I handed him the lantern and set about gathering the nails and pieces of paper strewn around - of course, an explosion of this magnitude would mercilessly eviscerate all garbage from within this tunnel and this tunnel from within this mountain, but seeing as how the fuse was set for two hours, we didn't want any other loafer in the area to stumble across across our brainchild. We didn't have to be told much when it came to legal explosions: we knew the logistics like the back of our hand and we knew we didn't have to bother about which poor sod we blew up on the other side of the mountain. When it came to planning such a big deal on our own accord, it took us a month to work out the supply-chain links and another month to survey the lands and hit upon a spot at which to shine the bright torch of deliverance into the unsuspecting faces of a thousand children of this land, a thousand children of a thousand brothers who had stolen our lives from us. It was white man versus white man, not something you could hold back with civil war nor make legal with trumped up laws... I'm not sure I like myself when I drift off like this.
After a final confirmation from Naiccus, I turned around to leave, slowly marching up the gentle slope towards the lamppost at the foot of which Faffie was supposed to have stashed the escape route from the reserve about an hour ago. Seeing as how the last train had just passed us, I didn't have to look back every minute or so to check the height of the flame. That's also why I didn't realize how Naiccus had decided to stay back with the one thing that had gone right in his life in the last two years. That's also why when I looked back from the lamppost, I knew the next train through this mossy crawlway was going to be pieces of train as soon as it crossed it half-way. That's also why I knew I was a dead man, too, because the map showed that I needed to take the second train from now to escape the reserve. That's also why I knew Naiccus hadn't forgiven me yet for bringing him to this place six years ago. That's also why I decided to walk back to him and ask him for his forgiveness before we departed together. That's also when I knew Naiccus wouldn't forgive me easily. I had hesitated. I had taken time to read the map without him. I had gone all the way without looking back at him. I had been clearly selfish, and death would not deter Nasty Naiccus from being Nasty Naiccus.
The flame trembled and Naiccus caught the movement before I did, standing up in time to look at me with bloodshot eyes, the little windows shooting past not before they cast a seemingly flickering gleam in his eyes. He grunted his disapproval, I could only stare straight ahead with as much straightlacedness as I could muster. It was not right to argue with Nasty Naiccus, everyone knew that. As soon as the locomotive had exhausted its thundering advertisement of promise and opportunity in this side of the world, he went back to checking the fuse for one last time. It was proper; of course it was, Naiccus Arpath had fixed it, and when men who have a grudge not against their wives or bosses but against the world rig railway lines to blow up when innocent people are passing overhead, it is more often than not that they WILL blow up.
I handed him the lantern and set about gathering the nails and pieces of paper strewn around - of course, an explosion of this magnitude would mercilessly eviscerate all garbage from within this tunnel and this tunnel from within this mountain, but seeing as how the fuse was set for two hours, we didn't want any other loafer in the area to stumble across across our brainchild. We didn't have to be told much when it came to legal explosions: we knew the logistics like the back of our hand and we knew we didn't have to bother about which poor sod we blew up on the other side of the mountain. When it came to planning such a big deal on our own accord, it took us a month to work out the supply-chain links and another month to survey the lands and hit upon a spot at which to shine the bright torch of deliverance into the unsuspecting faces of a thousand children of this land, a thousand children of a thousand brothers who had stolen our lives from us. It was white man versus white man, not something you could hold back with civil war nor make legal with trumped up laws... I'm not sure I like myself when I drift off like this.
After a final confirmation from Naiccus, I turned around to leave, slowly marching up the gentle slope towards the lamppost at the foot of which Faffie was supposed to have stashed the escape route from the reserve about an hour ago. Seeing as how the last train had just passed us, I didn't have to look back every minute or so to check the height of the flame. That's also why I didn't realize how Naiccus had decided to stay back with the one thing that had gone right in his life in the last two years. That's also why when I looked back from the lamppost, I knew the next train through this mossy crawlway was going to be pieces of train as soon as it crossed it half-way. That's also why I knew I was a dead man, too, because the map showed that I needed to take the second train from now to escape the reserve. That's also why I knew Naiccus hadn't forgiven me yet for bringing him to this place six years ago. That's also why I decided to walk back to him and ask him for his forgiveness before we departed together. That's also when I knew Naiccus wouldn't forgive me easily. I had hesitated. I had taken time to read the map without him. I had gone all the way without looking back at him. I had been clearly selfish, and death would not deter Nasty Naiccus from being Nasty Naiccus.
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