Friday, June 25, 2010

I Sat in the Window of My Room

I sat in the window of my room. I just sat there, because I did not have anything better to do. The street was a huge distance below, and everything looked strange and weird. The cars looked like dead metallic animals, the ladies looked ugly in the yellow street-light. The aspect of the whole scene seemed interesting, somehow.

Inside the room, I had coffee placed on the table. I sipped it every time I stood up to stretch my legs. It was cold as stone, but I didn’t care. The carpeted floor had blotches of coffee, looking like closed owl-eyes. I was a coffee freak; my mother rued this. There had been no phones for me today. I was thankfully left alone by everybody.

I had fallen into a kind of open-eyed, breathless stupor – the kind you go into when observing the country-side sometimes – when a human came into view. He was a he, and was carrying a briefcase, and had a brusque, manly, formidableness about him. It was amazing I could tell so much about him despite the height, but that’s how it was. I was a trained spy now. I had gotten used to this windowed view of all kinds of people, doing all kinds of things.

I mentioned the man with the briefcase because I was to become very interested in him in the fortnight following my first sighting of him. But, otherwise too, he had caught my eye then itself. As I was saying, he was manly, and I could tell he was tall from his seven shadows. He had gotten off a car still parked on the curb and had disappeared from view; presumably entered my building. I had an alien internal shiver. I felt like he had just entered my life.

I got up and lunged at my cup for another sip of the coffee. It was cold. It was cold. It was cold. It was cold. Cold coffee. Cold stranger man.

I had yellow socks on. My mother had given me the pair seven years ago, and strangely enough, I had worn them for the first time only a few days ago. I had finally realized how lovely they were. My mother had always insisted on making socks thick and woolly; she knew many things about clothes. I didn’t care. I liked the warmth they held. It’s strange, right, the way socks hold some kind of permanent warmth. They never blow a fuse or run out of fuel. Wow. The things an idle mind wonders about sometimes.

I planted my backside on the bed lightly and fished inside my drawer for a book with a black cover. I got it out, and looked at its dog-eared pages. Nah, I wasn’t in the mood for reading. I left the book on the bed, and walked into the bathroom.

Shit, the toothpaste tube was thin as hell, and it had probably run out. I didn’t care. I didn’t have to brush my teeth right now. I’d see about the toothpaste tomorrow. I went across from the basin, and towards the lavatory. It had a window with translucent glass right over it. I had a sudden impulse, and ran and stood on the lavatory. I turned a handle and opened the window. A rush of icy cold window greeted me. I shivered again.

I looked out, and saw the road below had no cars on it, except the one I had seen before. The one the man had come in. It was a very plain car, and looked like it was not very well kept. I could not see much from where I was, but there was a general ill-kept feeling about it. I am kind of well versed in these general feelings of mine, and have had ample opportunity to sharpen my skills at recognizing them. I did not miss this chance. The car was ill-kept, and it just stood there, as if forgotten or left by accident or knocked there by some big vehicle. Oh, the car.

The book I had taken out of my drawer had belonged to my mother in college. She had bought it on her 14th birthday, by stealing money from her father’s purse. She had been excited about reading it, and had hardly been able to wait before she could sit down and open the first page and start devouring it until she was finished. She had been vague in telling me about why she was so enthusiastic, but it had something to do with her favourite actor talking about the book in a radio ad. Well, she started a frantic search for the book around town, and finally found it in an expensive book store near her school. She stole the money, and went and bought it.

She recalls fondly how she had opened the first page in almost a feverish, ghoulish excitement and had started reading from the top. She could not understand a word. It was as if the book was in a language she did not know. She tried several times, but could not get past the first page, and hell, even the first page was unbelievably meaningless to her. She finally lost hope, and wrapped the book in black paper, and put it away. The book was Ulysses by James Joyce.

I resumed my seat at the window, and peeked out. I could see four street-lamps. They were all in a line. They illuminated a perfect circle of the stone street. They shone bright and defiant in the cold, I wished I could swoop down from my window in one movement, and hug one of them. Oh, they were the most beautiful things in the world, the lamps.

I suddenly remembered the car and realized it was gone. Vanished from view. Left my world for some point in the darkness beyond. I knew not where it was now. The car was gone, and had taken the stranger with the briefcase with it.

I picked up the paper from my bedside stool, and looked at the bald man on the front page. He had huge eyes, and had his hand raised in the air. He has eyebrows raised; it was not surprise, but natural habit. He was a huge fat man, and those eyes floated in pools of darkened flesh, and more flesh drooped from his chin. The lady standing behind him was not intended to be in the photograph. She was apparently just walking by, and the camera had caught her in the middle of a swift motion towards something important. She was definitely hurrying to get somewhere; maybe out of the photograph. Yes, she was not part of The Photograph of the Huge Fat Man.

I threw the paper on the floor. I stood up and trampled it under my bare feet. I absolutely danced on it then and there. I think I wanted to tear it into pieces. To hell with the paper! Go get your asses kicked, you sons of bitches, you losers. Of course I was losing my mind. Then and there. Then and there.

I made a quick circle around the bed, and stared into the distant haziness through the window. I could look at the night all night, I could stare into nothingness, and I wouldn’t stand a chance of falling asleep. At this point, some random saxophone riff hit my head from the side, it kinda exploded inside my head. I saw it coming, and then it was there. Oh, I wanted Coltrane. Right now.

I lay on my back on my bed, and sifted through pages of thought. I could feel my heart thumping, going on for augmented moments. It really sounded like everything was undecided, left to the event of the moment. Aflutter outside was a blackbird. Going to California would be nice, the sun is nice… there. As I was seeing the face of Robert Plant, I fell down towards a bowl of rice…

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

The Girl

I met the girl at the Starlight Café
She owned a bookstore behind the railway line
She was finely dressed and spat in the gutter
I got up at midnight, and followed her around
She found me reasonable and we got along

Monday, June 21, 2010

The Painter

A man with so many colours is a man with options
He does not worry about rotten bottles of paint
Red shines in the day time, and green fails, but blue triumphs!
What flexibility.

And brushes are so cool to carry under your arm.
Stacked up, smallish, and largish and midllish
And ebony wood, and oak wood, and mahogany wood
And horse tail, and ox tail, and human head hair!

Oh the painter must be so colourful, and so… vibrant! Vibrant!
Oh the painter is desirable. He’s charismatic, and joyous drinker.
His eyes see the world from ever-changing perspective, from different sides
He sees the underside of sad women, and children! Oh, the children in his paintings.

His paintings! His art-works! What majesty in his trees. Lines, curves!
He conjures up images from a third, twisted, sublime, abstract, glistening world.
He presents them on his canvas, he offers us a part of that elevated thought!
What charity in his voice! His musical presence, his benign eyes.
He’s wise. You see. He’s Wise.

And such is the unspeakable nature of the player
The sweaty, rigid, kicker of footballs.
Oh, he’s so unfit for these pages.

Friday, June 11, 2010

The Dictionary

But this time with disgust
I fling the dictionary far and long
Out of my sight!

Meanings of words do not concern me
I have but a short association to make with them
As soon as they have lit the flame inside me
And have refilled my throat with gushing nectar
They can be gone and done for,
And sleep a long night of decay
Among meanings and interpretations
In the dictionary.

Strip

Scrape your outside flesh, scrape with your nails and see what comes off, look at the remains in your nails – that is not you. Dig deeper, and you shall have courage for the journey into the abyss of self-knowledge. You dive deeper, and the deep is deep, the deep is confusing, the deep is unmerciful, and the deep is just there, all around you, overwhelmingly present in everything, in the very little piece of chicken you ingest with the vaguest hope of succulent taste. Everything is blasted forth – in a deluge of iron – and makes everything else worse than it was before. That is what happens in the abyss.

But you have to head on. Straight on, and you peel your skin off. You are naked now – at least to some extent. You see inside, you see inside, you see inside – you are panting now. Whimsical creature you are. The underground network that gave you so much pain is finally in your grasp – or is it? You have eyes – but your eyes only see so much. They go beyond very much – but not beyond your very bones. Humble eyes.

Strip – strip some more. Illusion heaped upon illusion. Catapulting into the future of great moonlight dreams and sparkling headlights, you are flying above the very banks of the river soaking in your blood. You head on – through the jungle of carelessness, you have the bamboo stick of forgiveness in your hand – you head on.

And when all the lingering and stumbling and hopelessness is over, there is no product. There is none output. Gathering dust is your discarded skin – your old faulty organs – once part of your fully spiritual body. Meaning nothing. Moral nothing. Heaped beside your soul is the body you held once. The scraps of your body serve as colours and binders and and brush. Paint on the great canvas of the soul of the night. The picture you make might be bleary and unclear and uncertain and unrevolutionary and unimportant and indifferent and other things – but paint it. Grotesque masks were made in this manner. Never stop.
The truest part of you is the vagueness inside you as you shop for vegetables and gawk open-mouthed at the seller, paying him money you don’t feel in your hands, and the splinters of words joining in your head, gaining momentum as they are plummeted into the wastebin of history by your vanity and your fear, and the little ruminations you have on reading the manifesto of this doctrine or that, and the small words stuck in your throat, unable to escape to the page in veiled ink. Ink is false, bad bad ink, it is inside, the pulp of your existence. You are what you never wrote; writing is acting.

Wednesday, June 9, 2010

She

In the night of the stars she drove around town
Fringing the roads, getting in way of traffic
Putting her foot down
Stopping for no man

At the red light she saw a seller of a bouquet of flowers
He was clad in rags and had a half-toothed smile
She let him come near, and wait for her
And just as he was ready to gloat and congratulate himself
She left him behind; she flew like wind

She selected every turn and chose and picked
And faced every pair of headlights with a confident air
She dangled her hand carelessly by the side
And let the gale take the papers she held
Good riddance! No reading now, we’ll take the road this time

Gaudily dressed sluts walked the other way
She made her disgust clear, and pulled up her nose
She was manly with the gear
She used the electric cigarette lighter
And littered the passenger seat with Marlboro ash
Phew! Smoking in a car!

And then when she was weary with it all
And when the night was ending
She drove to the edge of town
She drove with all her care
And she drove down into the sea, she.