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Young With Scabby Knees

Whether we be old or bald.

Scribble: ‘Memories of a dilapidated wire’

Memories of a dilapidated wire

It’s absolutely local a sense.
Again no past no future just the moment and this moment together creates resonance that shakes the local grass and the flower buds resonating lights of pain color smell.
These are just topological excitation of space.
Simply that.
Absolutely continuous and differentiable to the origin.
Marks of the sun confuse us.
We want to rip it off.
But like the grass it will create resonance one day.
And like the lizard tail it will drop off without letting anybody know of its secret un-presence.
Beautiful moments of pain dandruff hair and all those things.

We are simply fussing up things.
Fussing over this that.
We are not simply cooperating with each other.
At least visibly.
She says:

There was a moment, a single moment, early March of this year when I knew life had to consist of moments that made you feel infinite. It could be books or people (a rare breed of people) or food or places or time spent staring at the sky becoming one with the sea but that was the purpose of life – or at least a part of it – in this world that neither of us can ‘save’, in this madcap race from nowhere to nowhere that everyone wants you to participate in but you’re using every last iota of your self-belief to stay away from it. I cling to that moment when it gets too much, that moment – the one time when it’s quiet both inside and out.

to be continued
now and then
keep an eye/nose/ear

Scribble: Just throw it. That’s all we can do.

Scribble: ‘I was thinking of a question’

I was thinking of a question

If I stand on a shore I can see the sea coming towards me
I know that there is land on the other side too so the sea moves towards the other side
So, the question is what is happening?

I was just wasting some of your time.
Don’t have to know the answer.
Just enjoy the sea.
Relax.
We always need a friend who knows nothing.

By the way a friend who writes lighting-ly made me question this thing.
She writes:

Who knew the sky could be so many colours in one day? I’ve seen snow-white turn to steel and menacingly grey which yet again turns to white and thence to a pale orange or pale indigo.. to dark blue to pitch-black and then waking up to the sound of rain and an ink-blue sky.. when dawn is yet to break. Sometimes when I’m in the middle of thinking too much, I simply stare at the far horizon trying to differentiate between the sky and the sea, and for a moment, it’s peaceful and all that goes on inside my head or outside in the world, the riot of emotions and the riot of people – none of it matters. Because there is a place where the waves relentlessly reach for the shore day after day. And there’s some wisdom to be gained from it, I think.

Scribble – Just throw it. That’s all we can do.

‘Ode to Track Pants’

“Do you have a dress?” you ask.

“No, I don’t wear dresses,” I say.

“What will you wear to the club?”

“Track pants and t-shirt, of course.” I dismiss you.

“But you should wear a dress to a club!” you insist.

“You’re stereotyping. I can wear whatever I want to wear.”

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“Do you own a dress?”

“No.”

“I am going to buy you one.”

“NO.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like dresses. I’m a track-pants-person. I used to wear them to work too! I wear them everywhere.”

“Why don’t you like dresses?”

I stutter and stammer, wishing I could summon my guardian angel to put sensible words in my mouth so that I don’t communicate to you like a sack of potatoes.

“Why do you hate dressing up?” you relentlessly pursue.

“I dress up! I dress up.. once every quarter when I feel like it. I like being comfortable in the clothes that I wear and I only ever am comfortable in tracks and t-shirts.”

“Dresses make you feel uncomfortable?”

“I am conscious of my body, yes. It’s part of the reason.”

“You shouldn’t be. You should wear a dress. Let’s go shop for a dress.”

“I hate shopping.”

We don’t shop for a dress.

Nine days later, as I roam a shopping facility that a metropolitan city provides, I look at the rows and rows of clothes on either side of me and find the words that would’ve helped my case nine days before.

I don’t consider clothes an investment of time, energy and money necessary to my existence. I like the six t-shirts and three tracks I own. I do not receive commensurate returns from the investment made while ‘dressing up’. The four times a year that the returns are indeed favourable, I do ‘dress up’: I borrow and I get by.

Nine days later, as I roam a shopping facility that a metropolitan city provides, I come across a little black dress.

I would still wear tracks and t-shirts if I were possessing the type of body that would not make me self-conscious.

Nine days later, I own six t-shirts, three tracks and a dress; and four is still the number of times I am likely to find the aforementioned returns favourable.

Love Affairs In, With & After Nepal
India

‘Bliss point’

A final few hundred steps were climbed to believe that you can do anything, you can be anything, even if it is everything, even if it is nothing. You are okay.

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Three thousand and five hundred steps and then three thousand and five hundred more were climbed to reach bliss point. There was hot tea, careless laughter and dumbfounded disbelief.

Three thousand and five hundred steps and then three thousand and five hundred more were climbed to reach bliss point. There was rain, there was hail and there was snow. There were clouds, mountains and a chimney stove. There wasn’t money, there wasn’t electricity and there wasn’t soap. There weren’t telephones, warm baths or fresh clothes. It was bliss point.

Three thousand steps were climbed to taste the sense of an ending (and a beginning).

Two thousand and some hundred steps were climbed to feel the limbs give up and the conversations with feet cease.

Twelve hundred steps were climbed to feel the lungs complain and the frustration pile up again.

The sun slid down the sky that threatened to tear the dark clouds asunder so that tears and fear threatened to magnanimously make their presence felt.

Two hundred and sixteen steps were climbed to realise that bliss does not come easily.

Little by little, a wise trekker once said.

Love Affairs In & With Nepal
India

‘Time’

The sun tan on my hands is akin to the memories in my heart – both perhaps will fade with time. Adrenaline no longer courses through my body as adventure no longer moves my feet – both certainly will be rekindled time and again.

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The torn map in my hands is akin to the feelings in my heart – both perhaps seemed pivotal to my being at the start but neither certainly could plead its case over time. Blood no longer rushes to my head as 9.8 metre per second square no longer is the approximate rate at which my body is freely falling towards the earth – time had stood still and certainly will again.

Love Affairs In & With Nepal
India

‘Take Your Broken Heart, Make It Into Art.’

I can’t hold a pen right and it isn’t because of the blisters. I haven’t held a pen right since I last wrote a letter to you; I never told you this. It’s a coincidence, I tell myself. The clouds are vicious white waves, the sky is a vast blue ocean and my limbs feel as heavy as lead. I sit in this chair with sheets of newspaper splayed out in front of me in a manner haywire. The coffee in the masked white cup is still warm. They didn’t spell my name on it right.

The blisters on my fingers and feet hurt the same today but the ones on my knees and calves hurt less. The nails of my fingers and feet don’t look chipped, not if you look at them the way I do – with eyes closed. To start walking an unknown terrain under the malevolence of the midday sun was a rookie mistake, I tell myself. The setting sun cast such a glow, such a spell when I reached the top that I did not feel the lead in my limbs until the morning after. The coffee in the masked white cup is starting to be cold. I hate coffee. I take it every time I sit in a chair with sheets of newspaper splayed out in front of me in a manner haywire.

I haven’t read a word of it, the newspaper – only doodled on its margins, trying to piece together awkwardly framed sentences. I tear off each page after having exhausted its capacity to be written upon, crumple it up and throw it inside the waste basket a few metres across from me. It’s good practice for target shooting and for letting go of your words. I’ve thrown my notebooks away; stopped collecting souvenirs as well. I only carry a pen in my pocket now and I only write when near a waste basket which isn’t very often. The fire and desire I saw lit yet suppressed in your eyes when we parted last are what keeps me going, keeps me awake at night and keeps me from waking in the morning. I’m stupid, I tell myself. It’s going to rain today although the sky is astonishingly blue. It’s the kind of thing that you’d say with equally astonishing conviction, which is the kind of the thing that I love about you. The rectangular piece of technology in my other pocket doesn’t vibrate as often as it used to. Curiously, I don’t remember when it vibrated last but I remember that I haven’t spoken to my family in 49 days, to my friends in 28 and to you in 63. I extract it from my other pocket, look at it and put it back where it was. I collect the newspapers and the pen, stuff one under my left arm and the other in my pocket, and start to walk away. The coffee in the masked white cup is virgin.

The pavement is so clean that I wish to take my sandals off and walk barefoot upon it. I don’t. I suspect that the pavement might even be warm. I walk uphill. I imagine walking past the emaciated middle-aged man with one arm unnaturally shorter than the other, the little siblings trading red roses for money and the young man with a truncated torso, as I walk past square duplexes built with concrete, steel and glass. I don’t miss you, I tell myself. I make stray conversations with pets and sometimes their owners. I make stray conversations with bicycles and sometimes their owners. I walk uphill, till the staccato of cement gives way to the crunch of grass. The view isn’t particularly scintillating or one that makes great poems but the summit is unmarked and forlorn. I sit down on a rocky ledge, spread my legs out and try to write a bad poem. Four lines in, I realise that there isn’t a bin around.

October, 2016
Somewhere, India

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6 months hence: Piertotum Locomotor

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How can the sky be the limit when it in itself is limitless?

I laughed, I cried.

I fell, I flew.

I learned.

I grew.

Fuck us.

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Oh, we do not deserve this world.

You may think you’re a traveller, not a tourist.

But, no, neither of you deserve this world.

None of us do.

The world is big, and you are small.

You do not own any of it.

The world was here first.

Fuck you.

Fuck us.

Bannerghatta.

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It is strange that we need ‘sanctuaries’ for animals and birds; to think we think we own the planet. I look all around me and can’t help but shrug, can’t help but reject this too. The irony that runs in the name of civilisation is a thing of distaste and of wonder; oh how we ogle at these beasts, oh how we think we care for them by binding their spirits that were born free. I cringe at the sighs, the gasps and the cries that fill my ears. I look up at the clear blue sky, and I know where my heart lies, where I lie – and perhaps where their hearts lie too. This one and every other one’s for the clouds.

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October 8th, 2016
Bangalore, India

 

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