Assalam-o-Alaikum! - Harar, Ethiopia

Desert Wanderers: Harar, Ethiopia

The rains had fallen heavy. The sun squinted through a thick haze, a low sky; grey in most places but darker where the rain was falling. It struggled through but found it hard going. It failed to glisten on the shiny rocks near the stream, and the red earth; dry and spare, failed to take on that deep red ochre when it rains. But you could smell it though – that raw earthiness. The clouds, the dull tones, the earthly smell, my armpits, it all felt oppressive. Where was the horizon? Usually it stretched forever, but today it was gone. And with it, it seemed, the possibilities that life offered. Dreams and thoughts require space. Space to stretch and loosen and run around in, with arms splayed screaming ‘Woooooweeeeeee!’

But not today. No 'Woooooweeeee!' today. Today space has shrunk and with it the world and the universe of possibilities. Do forest dwellers dream less than desert peoples? Does seeing the horizon make you wander and wonder more? These are thoughtful questions. Here the land and people are ancient. That is why I've come. Not very far from here, a few hundred kilometres to the north-west, near Assal Lake in Afar, they found Lucy: Australopithecus afarensis. She lived 3.2 million years ago. But I prefer to call her by her more charming Amharic name ‘Dinkenesh’ which means ‘You are beautiful’. I shuffle about on my haunches looking for bits of chalky white bone that may belong to a long lost ancestor – but no luck! I sit on the earth, with my notebook and my trusty pen and do a sketch of the landscape. A written sketch. I can't draw remember. It's feels good to get out of the quagmire that is Harar – for all it’s lugubrious charms it can jangle the nerves a little bit. Out here it is nice. I can see the walled city from here; a clutter of dwellings rising like a sore in the surrounding flatness. I imagine, once upon a time, it would have been a compact city. But today it is a straggling and clogged bureaucracy. The cradle of mankind. So this is where it all began. Doesn’t look like much.

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Ethiopia

'It's found again!
What?
Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun'

Inshalah! Inshalah! Postcard from Harar - Ethiopia

'Je est un autre...'

So here I am. Off again. On the road. Off my head. In a dream. Off a plank. On the march. Lost my head...Isn't life wonderful! I can't sleep. You know it takes an entire day, a purgatory t-w-e-n-t-y-f-o-u-r h-o-u-r-s to get here on bum-numbing minibus - higgledy-piggledy-wriggledy, up-and-down, jump-around, no seat-belts, wacko-jacko driving, aaaawwwwl the way from Adis Ababa. Here being Harar, ancient walled city splitting at the seams and spewing its contents into surrounding Sorghum fields. Harar has countless city gates. I enter through the 'Bab el Salaam' (the Gate of Health) in Arabic but confusingly Bud Ber (the Gate of the Evil Eye) in Amharic. The sun beats down on this evil eye gate. The people stare. They are oblique, their hair tightly curled, they are chanting spells - on me. I need to sleep. What am I doing here? I don't know. I don't know. Now, that I am here...I wonder what am I looking for? What was it again? Ha, I remember, a feeling. I am looking for a feeling. A feeling I read somewhere. I want to recreate this feeling. To nab it. Not a scent. Not a place. Not a sight. Not a taste...but a feeling.

...but does this feeling exist on its own? I asked myself this same question on the minibus. Or is it, like most feelings, composed of a smell, a taste, a sight, a place...? I am tired...I am meandering...I have dreamy eyes. I need to sleep.

See the curtains of my room. Do you see? My little scabby room, with the fan, the shutters and the tin irony roof, they are undulating like waves. Like the sea. Maybe if I stare long enough, I will fall asleep. My head is thick and creamy. My nerves are shot. I am running a marathon inside my head. Too much thinking. Too many thoughts. Too much going on. Slow down! - I can't sleep. I tip toe to the window and look down onto the street. It is all quiet. Apart from, ah yes in the distance, dogs yapping, barking to god knows what - cats perhaps. The dogs are mangy. They rest during the day, on stewing piles of refuse heaps that stink to high heaven. Hear now some History. Pay attention little children or the pedagogue will get angry:

Harar - pronounced 'Harra', with the stress on the first syllable and a thin Arabic trill on the 'r' - is not quite, as Rimbaud says, a 'splendid city'. It's still isolated like the old days, but not as much as when Rimbaud was down here...running away - from himself. It was founded in the 12th century by Arabs from across the Red Sea - part fort and part market town and part stinkypot, and its coffers so filled with wealth from the caravan route snaking from coast to interior. It prospered in human bondage and 'Kawa' (slaves and coffee) - a great combination if you ask me. But no one is asking me. It is also the 4th most holy city in Islam after Mecca, Medina, and Cairo, and as a result, has a disproportionate number of mosques, whose skinny minarets rise like spikes in the desert - I guess I'll find out in the morning won't I? When the muezzins compete for my ears. I am tired. Time to go to sleep. To sleep now. To dream. Will I still be here when I wake?...Off to sleep. Off to sleep. Life is sweet. Life is sweet. Ahh, this bed feels comfortable. THOUGH THE BEDSHEETS DO SMELL!... Shuuussh! SLEEP. SLEEP. GOTO SLEEP. Life is sweet - life is sweet. Sleep baby, sleep..

ZzZzz...I dreamed a dream in Harar - I don't know who I am, who I was - Tried finding me in a dust storm - Maybe I was lost...ZzZzz

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Coming soon...Ethiopia (Abyssinia)

A sunshiny day in Trafalgar Square

Today was a smashing summerbright day. Amberbright sun warming my heart; loosening the bony grip of winters talons. It was colourful - colourbright. Trees and leaves trembling in apple green. Sky a rich blue oceanic expanse. Buses a burnished bumblebee red. My face a thick paintbrush smile. So I spent the day at Trafalgar Square. The heart of LondonTown. Watching the pigeon brigade boppin' and peckin like gangsta rappers'; and the super-charged tourists with cheesy digital camera smiles. Got asked to take a few pictures too: 'If you would just sit over there - that's right, lovely. And shall we try here, lovely, and lets try something a little different, ready, steady...say cheese!' and then the inevitable 'Wow! thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, we really like!' they beamed. 'My pleasure' I say and walk away with a lofty heart. Makes me feel something inside. Pride perhaps? Maybe.

Moving on - There's a spunky cool Vietnamese noodle bar just off china town. It's strictly for cool people only - like myself (they can tell). The name of the establishment escapes me. There I was, at lunchtime, amongst dishsaucer steaming puddles of thick noodle soup, that you slobber down - served to a background of competing babels and screeching wallpaper patterns. I love it. Reminds me of 'Ho Chi Minh' city (aka Saigon - those were the days) - but without the torrential rainbursts - not Today anyway. Cos Today it is a smashing and Sunbeaming day. And I feel warm in my jacket. I have a summer version too. Will take it out.

I have a problem. The problem is this. I am incapable of performing the following simple task: Walk In To BookShop - Then Walk out Of BookShop Without a Book. Do you understand? My predicament? I am ImpUlSivE CumPuLsivE...What to do about my ImpoSiBlY PoeTicaLY FasHiOnabLy ImpUlSive ComPuLsivEneS??? - Not go near a BookShop? Impossible - I'd die. No, seriously I would. I know this sounds a little bookwormy (a little?), so no fun making please, but I just love being surrounded by books. Yes surrounded by them, in a quiet niche, with a carpet, and that smell - of paper, Ha! and those lovely black 'Moleskine' notebooks - love those; got millions of em' - and then the fact that you can sink into those sumptuous leather chairs and while away a good portion of the day, in the splendour, of ink on paper. And here's another quirk of mine: If there's a book I really really like, and if there's two versions of it, say a £8.99 version and a £14.99 hardback sumptuous version - I always, always, go for the £14.99 decadent version. Why? Madness. Typeface. Better cover. Yes, madness. I love books with nice covers - it shows they have thought about it. I like that. At heart I am an aesthete. I love details. Passion shows itself in the details. Didn't you know that? Tut-tut. - and there you were thinking I was mad. Shame on you!

****

The Philosophers Stone

A fine selection of random Pick n' Mix thoughts and bumblings from deep within the cobwebbed labyrinthine and well trodden corridors of my squidgy brain. I know not where dost these thoughts come from Sire. Perhaps it is the devil? 'Hey! Mephisto! Where the devil are you man?!' Or maybe it is not the devil but the desire to wreck mayhem and mischief - I hereby give you the *Philosophers Stone:

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Time, Money, Life

Work = selling (Your-Time) for Money
Since (Your-Time) = Life
Work = selling your Life for Money

But beware my friends that you do not sell your Life for Money, only then to have no Time left to live it. That is the ultimate tomfoolery.

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On happiness

The greatest philosophical conundrum of all is that of happiness. Unfortunately, for the vast majority of humanity, happiness is what one has relative to what others have. This will always be a recipe for unhappiness.

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Bachelor

A very clever man indeed. Usually of high IQ and superior cognition, who has somehow, despite the odds stacked against, managed to dodge the assault course of love and relationships, and has come out smiling on the other side; alive and kicking with brain fully intact. Bachelors are also the most creative and fun members of society. Oh yes. For don't you know that all the greatest works of art; from the finest paintings to the most learned books, are the progeny of the bachelor mind. Why so? Because only within the hallowed and sumptuous interior of the bachelor mind does the testosterone-fuelled flame of brilliance still glow fiercely. Marriage is the death knell of creativity - spurn it with a vengeance!

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Books

The smell of paper newly minted in printing press. The leafy-rustle of pages. The sallow yellowyness of an old crinkly book. The smudge marks of sweat. Coffee stains of ancient coffee nights. The escapade into a world of imagination. The yellowish glow of page under anglepoise lighting. The heavy pause upon reading something so profound - it changes your life forever. The miracle of delicious prose. The weight of mind as it shuffles heavy under knowledge and wisdom. The majesty of existence. Oh, the superior pleasures of books.

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Love

Really? Where? Can't see it. Doesn't exist. An irrational state of mind caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. A state of profound addiction similar to morphine addiction. Some types believe it is caused by a chemical reaction. If so: Wow! what a beautiful chemical reaction it is! The best chemical reaction in the whole universe. Apart from the big bang of course.

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Muse

Something that inspires you to spend hours on end in front of a bleeding LCD screen in the vain conceited hope that you will somehow, miraculously by act of superior will, pull out as if rabbit from hat, words strung together in a curious fashion, like these, that people will enjoy reading. My muse is my vanity.

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Travel

The escape from the bore of quotidian predictability, to embrace the fiery chaos of universal uncertainty. To live one must occasionally sup from the wine of chance and uncertainty. Take a risk...Go on! Jump!

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French Baguette (a la 'French Steek')

Warm, fresh, and with that crinkly 'Ahhh' sigh when squeezed between your hands.

___

The Mullah Brigade

Gang of bearded one's attempting to press gang you into going to the mosque to save your soul. The real reason they do it is cos they get browny points for trying. Each human life 'saved' = 1 browny point which can be cashed once in heaven. No interest accrued though. 'Accrued' - Ha! An accountancy term! My first ever. The accountant within is attempting to break free from the 'arty-farty' poet he is forced to live with. (whisper) 'I don't think they like each other'

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Cloudy days

Don't exist. The sun is always shining. The sun always shines inside an aeroplane - have you never noticed?

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The anaesthetic of familiarity

'I' live inside a 'body' made of skin and bones and hair and other stuff and I have been given a name called 'Wasim' and I have something called a brain that controls me, and tells me how to stay alive and ensures my heart doesn't stop beating. My brain is also aware that it itself is alive - Wow! I can wriggle my thumb when I like and I can move my right leg and do a little jump when I want. I can eat things that give me pleasure but unfortunately I have no control over who I fall in love with - Damn! I hate my heart cos it is unpredictable and wily in temperament. I wish I could just switch it off sometimes. Not the beating part but the loving part.

___

Death

Death is the price I have to pay for having lived
(whisper) 'So live. Don't waste'

___

I am everything

Imagine a square empty black room
20 miles x 20 miles x 20 miles big
Now imagine a grain of sand...
Placed in the centre of this room.
Now, incinerate that grain of sand into 100 million smaller grains...
and let them diffuse equally throughout the room
...That is the universe.

What am I in this universe, a nothingth of a nothingth of a nothingth of a grain of sand?
Yet, I don't feel like nothing. I am Me. I am Wasim. I am Everything. I am the Universe. Without me the Universe doesn't exist. I am as essential to its existence as it is to mine. We are good friends you see. The Universe and Me:

'Hey Universe how you doing? Where have you been?'
'You been everywhere?'
'Wow, that's impressive! Tell me Universe, where's your favourite time and place?'
'Here and Now?'

(whisper) 'Here and Now is the bestest place'

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*The philosopher's stone, reputed to be hard as stone and malleable as wax, Latin: lapis philosophorum; is a legendary alchemical tool, supposedly capable of turning base metals into gold. It was also sometimes believed to be an elixir of life, useful for achieving immortality. For a long time, it was the most sought-after goal in Western Alchemy. In the view of alchemists like Sir Isaac Newton familiarity with the philosopher's stone would bring enlightenment upon the maker.

Bipolar man, girl, and exploding moon

Tip tap toe...tip tap toe...take these three tapping tentacular throes on the tip of the tongue to the tip of the nose. Tip tap toe... tip tap toe...

There is no doubt about it. The moon does explode. I have seen it with my own eyes. But only under particular conditions - like good conversation for example. There is something deeply fortifying within the marrow of good conversation don't you think? Like Vitamins or Cod liver oil it nourishes you. I am talking of conversation where well lubricated words; mellow, rich and sonorous, are allowed to brew for a while in a teapot containing the three sacred 'W's' - Wit, Wisdom and Witchcraft. After brewing they sit briefly on the tip of the tongue to survey the plain before them. And then gently, without a hurry in the world, 'tip tap toe - tip tap toe' they roll off the tongue - like a spluttering Tank. Watch her eye lashes flutter amidst a barrage of your cadences. Do you see her nostrils quiver to the boom of your intonations? And her heart caught in a vice between Wit and Wisdom? And as for Witchcraft? Ha! Witchcraft will worm its way into her spleen and gall bladder where it will live forever; brooding. But remember quantity is not quality. Hitachi not always Haitachi. I am so funny.

Dominate her - that is what she secretly desires; though she will never admit it. Every utterance should be a bomb. A grenade lobbed into the sensual core of this creature you are wrapping in spellbind fetters. Sweep her off those little tiddly toes; against the wishes of gravity and her knees no less, and you shall be hailed a sorcerer of hearts of some repute. Why, Princelings from the kingdom of Caligula will flock to you for lessons and you will be feted by acolytes from the kingdom of the Sun God 'Atahulpa' in the high Andes.

Just as important in these matters of exploding moon is food. Oh yes - preferably something meaty. There is a primeval hole within her that is attracted to the idea of male bringing home carcass from hunt and slowly roasting under flicking fire amidst lofty Shakespearean sonnets. Really? Oh Yes. Wood fire barbeque's are a fire hazard so I recommend a good old fashioned oven with temperature settings and a timer - to prevent incineration of said carcass. Let the meat stew and watch her stew as you nibble away ever so gently through the fabric of that soft cotton chemise. Next step: apportion choice cuts from carcass, with plenty of trappings, and liberally serve intoxicating drink. Watch the juices flow (Not hers the carcass stupid). As for conversation topics? Not your usual tepid and wearisome prosaic tripe but hokey-poky leg-pulling variety with occasional references to ancient life form - Tiktaalik Rosea. You say: 'Milady, I hereby give you a gift of your past. I am a magician of history and in my palms I sew together forgotten things. Here I unfurl before you. Please take'. Watch her giggle-bubbles germinate and rise to the surface and then go pop! You are in effervescent heaven. She really likes you.

Tip tap toe...tip tap toe...take these three tapping tentacular throes on the tip of the tongue to the tip of the nose. Tip tap toe... tip tap toe...

How's the food you ask: 'Mmm, yummy'. How's the wine? 'Mmm, yummy'. How am I? 'Mmm, yummy' So there you have it. You're Mr 'Mmm yummy'. Someone fires a silvery moon into London's empty dome sky for it to explode in a flash of silky crescents. They fall on you like giant nail clippings in party poppers. See I told you the moon does explode. Sometimes.

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Bipolar man and the girl

I have begun to get used to the bipolar man inside me, or is he sitting beside me? Nope, he's not sitting beside me - he is hanging from that aeroplane in the fluffy clouds. What is he doing up there? I must have a word with him sometime. He is getting rather tiresome with his stunts. The other night I was in Tescos' buying my dinner, when bipolar man decides to show up and then proceeds to chat up this girl. It was wholly inappropriate. She was bent over some cheeses and he, bipolar man, was bent over too. Bent over at his knees that is; they had turned to flour. I, being highly focused and a model bachelor, wanted to get back home, cook my dinner and get on with my work, but he! - he, that rascally fellow, had begun to wriggle his way into; or shall we say 'charm' his way into, the aforementioned ladies brain. I must admit she had a beautiful brain and beautiful frame. Frames and brains don't usually go hand in hand but this was an exceptionally rare creature.

It appeared to me, as an external observer of the 'chatting up' proceedings, that said lady was indeed smitten by bipolar man's helplessly attractive sphynx like goofyness and of course his chronically skewered sense of normality. So watching him I decided I'd call it a truce between us. Why fight Mephisto when you can join him? - 'brothers in arms' as they say. Yes, we shall sit together and wrought out our gentleman's agreement. He is Me as much as I am Him. Bottom line: We need to carve out each others territories; niches. Where 'I' reign and where 'He' belongs - though 'I' and 'He' are mutable and flux like concepts here. But it must be done.

So what happened with the girl?

What? - Oh, yes, she's coming round over the weekend. For 'dinner'. That reminds me I must pop into Tescos', and this time, I'm leaving bipolar man at home lest he do more damage to the tranquility of my life. Or is it his life?

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The dreamweaver

Last night I had a dream (or was it a nightmare?) - one of those surreal one's that linger with you for many days after. In a bid to claim this dream for posterity, and perhaps to better understand it, I document it here - in the duluxdreams archives. The dream starts off harmlesly enough but later descends into the darkest recesses of my black soul - transmogrifying itself into a nightmare.

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It starts with a small spaceship with me sitting inside the tiny cockpit; bare feet and slippers with legs crossed on a shaggy carpet. The cockpit is small and cozy and dark. Like those Japanese sleeping pods in Tokyo. There is no room to stand and all you can see are the winking lights of the control panel buttons and above these, on all sides, a long wide panel of glass, through which you can peer out into deep space. To my right is a white mini refridgerator that hums away continously, and above it, a little cupboard containing tinned food items; tuna, spaghetti-hoops, sardines, beans, and noodles (the instant 4min variety). I also have a kettle, fresh milk (from?) and a packet of teabags called 'Ceylon Premium Teas'. I am alone in the cockpit. In the dream I am aware that I have been sent by the good people of earth on a one-way mission to a distant planet. How long will it take me to get there? Two hundred and fifty years! I am all alone for these two hundred and fifty years with no contact. Just me in this cozy winking broom-cupboard of a ship; slowly, crawling through space. The ship is on autopilot - space being so vast and uneventful. And yet surprisingly I feel happy. Why am I happy? Because...

...The folks on earth have been wise enough to upload into the ships computer all the knowledge of earth. So, I have access to every conceivable thing that mankind knows. I can access scientific journals, obscure historical texts, reports, newspapers, magazines, porn, all the editions of National Geographic, Economist, and most importantly of all, all the books that have ever been published on earth; all the classics: Homer, Moby-Dick, Proust, Robinson Crusoe; you name it it's all there and not only Western literature but also Eastern tomes such as the Upanishads, Bhagavita and the Karma Sutra (what good?). So I spend my time; all two hundred and fifty years of it, reading this stuff! My favourite is Robinson Crusoe whom I love to read under the dim light of the winking buttons, with a cup of tea in hand, just me, in the cozy cockpit; legs crossed, sitting on the shaggy carpet, whilst outside the stars blink in an endless dancing charade. Occasionally my reading is interrupted when through the window I espie asteroids and whooshing funnel shaped comets with their bushy streaming tails and pink gaseous nebulae that look like splats of paint. I even wave and say 'Hi' to a family of wonderfully gay creatures that look like giant luminous jelly-fish that live in the vacuum of space. One of them offers me a chewing gum...Weird.

Eventually after hundreds of years of solo travel; and after having absorbed everything; after having read all the great books and no doubt thinking myself to be very clever indeed, my little spaceship finally lands on the distant planet - my destination. So, I open the hatch and walk out timidly, my legs a little stiff, squinting into a bright baking-yellow desert planet - all dunes and nothing else. Nothing else but sand dunes from the tip of my legs to the end of my ears. I am the only one there...I look back and the ship has disappeared. And then I realise that I don't know why I am here. Why am I here? And then like a speeding train the aloneness hits me. I am alone. And all the knowledge I have gained during the centuries of my journey is wholly useless. What good is Madame Bovary? What good is Virgil now? And suddenly this overwhelming feeling starts growing inside, this morbid despair - all black and gooey, and I start sobbing in the sand, sifting it through my fingers, pummelling it with my fists, smashing my head against the infinite hollowness in my heart. What a fool I've been! An idiot savant! - and I'll never see my family or nieces again (my nieces are quite prominent in the dream)...and then I realise that they're long dead, and now I'm really choking in tears, with spit drooling down my mouth and I can't breathe, and I look up to the sky and scream to god to help me, and then I wake up - crying.

****

Catching Moments

Let's catch moments
for dark-gloomy days. Quick! catch em' - before they slip away
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Apricot dawn: Apricot sun tossed into pearly sky - watch it explode into million shards of light that

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to earth,

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like light-rain, frightening the shadows; unveiling reams and reams of My World

Do you see My World? - Folds of creased auburn hills, tufts of knitted greens, the horizon smudged and stubborn - drawn by a child, and swabs of silken-white clouds chasing shadows - like one chases nymphs or dreams. And birds, like 'w' shaped wings, and dragonflies with gauzy wings, darting like Salamander tongues

Do you hear My World? - The mute-rumble of the committee of insects - conspiring in their shiny-black, multitudes. The iridescent wings of midgens parting the still air, and the sun beating on my scarlet lids - it's pulse pulling me down whorls and whorls of delirium. And the lake? It sparkles with the sound of glitter on a blue eternity, merging with the bruised-blue of the midday sky - I think I can hear infinity...

...I close my eyes and listen

They say I'm mad World?

I open my mind - and

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It's joy My World! - Happiness greets me with open arms! Sunny moods scoop me up on shoulder-blades and take me for a walk. Wreathes of joy hug me like good friends, bringing in their wake painted butterflies - to chase away my black dogs

The moment is mine

I have caught it

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Monologue of the leaping boy

Yes, that's me leaping into Gangamai! Leaping into her is like leaping into my mothers outstretched arms. It's like being born again - like having angels lift me on my toes - like having wing tips aimed for the clouds. It's great! Every morning, in summer, before school starts, I go to Gangamai to see how she is. Most times she's in a good mood. Sometimes she can be foul tempered. Today I think she is happy and a little bored. She's my God and my Mother and My Life. They say that once, a long time ago, she used to reside in Heaven. One of our great Kings prayed for her to come down to Earth. So she descended to make the whole world pious and fertile. They say that even a tiny drop of her water carried on the breeze will instantly erase the sins of many lifetimes. But there's no drops for me. I'm lucky - I get splashes!

You ask me if I am afraid when jumping? What is there to be afraid of? Tell me are you afraid when you hug your mother? Will she hurt you in her bosom? Your mother will never hurt you! And even if she does it'll be for a good reason. How do I feel when I jump? I feel it's something I have to do. If I miss out a day I feel wretched afterwards. I have noticed that I concentrate better in class If I have been to her in the mornings - and I feel happier during the day; like being wrapped in a warm glow. I like to think she watches over me. Like having a big brother though I have no bigger brothers. When I leap, when I'm in the air, with the wind in my ears, and my limbs dangling behind me like Frogs legs, I feel that I have departed this world. Is it like being elsewhere you ask? Yes, I suppose it is like being elsewhere! - In that moment I feel special as if it's only me and Gangamai in the whole world.

I remember once we went to Patna to stay with some cousins. How much I hated it! I hadn't realised how hard it was going to be - to be separated from Gangamai. I felt empty inside and was miserable for most of the time. I felt the same pangs when Amitabh Bachanan died in the movie Sholay. My family think I'm mad! But they laugh too at my silliness! My father is always quoting Rabindranath Tagore: 'Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged with humanity'

I don't understand what he means, but I know it will be difficult later when I have to find a job. I don't want to move away. I want to stay here. But my mother says all good boys go to the city to find well paid work and help their mothers. Maybe when I get older Gangamai won't mean as much to me? I'll have others! Is it possible to have such an ardent love for Gangamai? Seems a bit silly don't it? I don't mind others using her but I do get a little jealous and angry if someone takes my patch - my leaping patch. I can't explain it - Gangamai doesn't speak to me directly but I can hear the echo of her thoughts. It's like she's a younger and more understanding version of my mother. I once asked my father if all wives were like that. He burst out in a fit of coughing laughter - he wouldn't stop laughing. He didn't say anything though. He just hugged me rudely and planted a big sloppy kiss and then quoted Rabindranath Tagore again:

'Every child comes with the message that God is not yet discouraged with humanity'

I still don't understand what this means. Maybe when I'm older I will?

____

There once lived a race of beings...

'There once lived a race of beings who believed the world was a shade of pink...'

Is that another beginning for your book?
Yeah! do you like it?
No
No? – what’s wrong with it?
Well, it’s a bit boring ain't it?
Boring? What’s boring about it?
Well, it doesn’t say anything
Yes it does
No, it doesn't. It says nothing interesting
Interesting! What could be more interesting then a race of beings who see shades of pink?
Yes, I know. But it doesn’t 'jump out' at you - It doesn't have that 'Je ne sais quoi'
Jump out? Je ne sais quoi?
Look, before I buy a book I always read the first line. If the first line don’t interest me I don't bother
Eh?
OK, look, the other day I bought a book from Borders yeah…
What was the first line?
OK. The first line read: ‘On a wind tossed wintry night of old, she caught sight of Mr Derek, the man destined to strangle her, in the wine cellar’
That’s utter shit!
No, it's not!
Yes it is. And I'll tell you what else. It’s clichéd, it’s tripe and it tells you what happens. Trust me it’s shit
You've not read the book
I don't need to
But it got published?
So? They'll publish anything these days
Well, it's better than your beginning
No, it’s not! My beginning is not clichéd and nor does it give away the whole bloody plot in the first bloody sentence!
Yeah, that's cos your bloody book doesn't have a bloody plot
That's unfair!
Yes it might be. But tell me 'Mr Author', who cares about pink-eyed beings anyway?
Look, they're not pink-eyed beings. They are beings who see shades of pink. That's a not-so-subtle difference
It's still a crap beginning for a book
Hey, you're supposed to be my friend! Why do you not like it? You still haven’t given me a good reason

[Pause]

I'll tell you why I don't like it
Why?
It’s the pink
What?
I don’t like pink
What do you mean you don’t like pink?!
I just don’t like the colour pink!
What? Your mad!
No, I’m not. There's lots of folks who don't like pink - You saying they're all mad?
No, that’s not what I meant. OK, forget it. So tell me what colour do you like?
Jeez. I don't know, erm, purple? blue? I like blue better. It’s further removed from pink that's for sure.
OK. So, ‘In the beginning there was a race of beings who believed the world was blue’ – that sound better?
Er, yeah, it’s better but there's still something missing
Like what?
Like a name
You what?
The race. They've gotta have a name!
A name? What on Earth for?!
Because…look this is so basic, frankly I’m surprised you don’t know. The reader needs to feel empathy with your creations. So you gotta give them a name
Empathy? With a race of beings...that see shades of blue?
Ye-eah, so? There’s nothing wrong with giving names to races that see blue, just like there’s nothing wrong with calling kids who have 'Downs Syndrome' Betty or Mustafa.
Hey, wait a minute that's different. You can't compare fantasy creations with Down Syndr...Ok, look I'm not gonna argue...what about…a name like... ‘Blueseys’?
No, not original. Besides it sounds like a gang of cheerleaders
‘Bluesers’?
No, sounds like loosers
‘Blue…’
Look, it doesn’t have to have the word ‘blue’ in it - it can be anything
Oh, OK. What about…'Triglobytes’?
‘Triglobytes! – You can’t go naming your fantasy creations names from earth! They've gotta be something unique and funny
Funny?
Yeah
What about er…’Bogeywhigs’?
That’s not funny. That’s childish and silly
‘Gangleweebs’?
No
‘Gettoblastfrizzles’
No
‘Bumfluffbuttocks’
Why are all these names related to gross bodily functions?
‘Burpalots’
No!
‘Fartalots’
No!
‘Fukkalots’
No!
‘Suck…’
Don’t!...Don’t even go there!
OK, what about 'Greamers’...

[Pause]

‘Greamers? Mmm, Ye-eah... I like that, it sounds rather like...dreamers! Now, that’s good

‘There once lived a race of beings called Greamers who believed the world was blue’ - What do you think now?

Yeah, me like, but…
Now what?
I still don’t like blue
What do you mean you don’t like blue? It was your f***ing colour choice!!!
I know, but...
OK, what about green?
No
Red?
No
Yellow?
No, No, No, All No! It's not colours we need. We need something else...
Like what?
Like erm, something not related to colour. Let me think...‘There was once a race of beings called Greamers who believed the world was…

[Pause]

‘Real’

[Pause]

Eh?
‘Real!’
Eh? Sorry, you what?
‘There was once a race of beings called Greamers who believed the world was real!’

[Pause]

Woh...
Exactly. Aren't I a genius?
That is…Woh - I like that. That is good. That is genius!
I know
You’re a genius!
I know. I just said that. Are you deaf?
That is really deep stuff!
I know
‘There was once a race of beings called Greamers who believed the world was real’ – Nice!
I know
And it's paradoxical
I know
Paradox is good
I know
Will you stop saying 'I know'

[Pause]

[Reluctant voice] But, I was thinking...
Yeah?
Can the Greamers believe the world is real and also believe that it is blue?
Why?
Because if they believe it is blue than it can’t be real – right?
Er...yeah, so?
So…if they believe it is blue and real at the same time then they must be living in self denial
Self denial?
Yeah

[Lull before the storm]

What do you think this f***ing is! Ruddy-bloody-Sigmund-Freud?! We're not talking Tolstoy here! Or The Brothers Karamazov! This is a f***ing sci-fi fantasy about Greamers who live in some poxy galaxy far, far away...and you want to give them emotions? Ergo 'self denial'?

Keep your knickers on mate! It was only a suggestion?

[Calming pause]

OK, apologies for my flaming temper. But tell me My 'Dostoevsky', why do you want to, to use the technical term, imbue them with self-denial?
To make the story more complex. You know?! Give it a heart and soul!
More complex? Heart and soul? - Why?
Why! Knock, Knock. Hello! Anybody home? Have you never heard of the Nobel Prize for Literature?
Yes, as a matter of fact I have but what has your novel got to do with it?
Well, If I'm to stand a chance of winning, fingers crossed, I need to give it layers of complexity - don't I?
Nobel Prize?
Yes!
You think your novel has a chance of winning the Nobel Prize?
Yeah, why not? When it's completed. Never say never! Always keep hope on the Bunsen Burner!
Look, if this novel, this story, this fantastical adventure you're writing, ever wins the Nobel Prize..
Yeah?
I'll change my name to Greamer...and, I'll personally move to a galaxy far, far away. How's that? But you know what? I think before that happens, you should change your name to Greamer
Me? Why?
Why? Cos you're the only dreamer here (laughs)
Oh, fuck off! You wait and see. I'm gonna win it
Yeah, whatever...Mr Greamer, sorry I meant 'dreamer' (laughs)
Oh, piss off! Dreams are meant to be had
Really? In your case they were meant to be fads! (laughs)

The End

____

A Poem

Memories

Thru prickly paths the sun beats down upon my head
Strobe like hammer, the sun beats down, on a grassy bed
Later: I drift across this tender sky of cool sunbeams
That bathe my mind, in liquid light – then starry beams

Tender peals of girly laughter scratch the torpid air
There she swarms, in radiant spells, she flicks her hair
Her gaze a-cast, with net so wide, as the Sargasso Sea
I look to her, ancient memories, gaze back at me

_____

I have bi-polar disorder

I went to the doctors' today. He told me I have bipolar disorder - albeit a mild form called Cyclothymia. This is sometimes referred to as 'bipolar light'. As in COKE light.

How did I feel when he told me? Mmm, let me think. Strangely enough the first thought that popped into my head was: 'Stephen Fry has that form of bi-polar'. Later I jumped on the Internet and found a whole bunch of other famous sufferers: Mark Twain, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Jimi Hendrix, and a famous painter who cut off his ear. The list goes on and on. 'I suffer from bi-polar disorder.' I say this out aloud to get the words to sink in – but they don’t, not yet anyway. Perhaps, they’ll sink in overnight and tomorrow morning when I wake up I will jump out of bed screaming ‘I have bi-polar disorder!’. It makes sense though. When I'm at my best I feel I can do anything, I can rule the world, I can win the Nobel Prize, I have a heightened sense, even a trembling branch can fill me with raptures; the world falls in love with me and I with it. I have massive highs and miserable lows.

I suppose, if anything, at least there is a name for what I have. Previously I’d thought the name was 'Wasim'. (laugh). And in the dark ages I no doubt would have been accused of harbouring demons - inside myself. What does it feel like to live with me? Er, which me? (laugh). I imagine myself going to an interview and being asked ‘So, tell me about yourself’ and I say ‘Which self would you like me to tell you about?’ – In a way – In a freak show kinda way – I feel that it’s a ‘cool’ thing to have – you know like 'I’m borderline fucked up how are you?' (laugh)

You know I think that Fernando Pessoa had bi-polar. No, he definitely did. Have you ever read his 'Book of Disquiet'? It’s the kind of shit I understand very easily – I do get it. I get exactly what he’s saying. That frightens me. I suppose, the key thing, is to harness and channel my chaotic energies into creative productions! Like this for example. It helps me. Seriously it does. You have no idea how much this helps me to cope sometimes. I suppose the biggest problem is that I don’t show it outwardly – but it is inside. I suppose I've always known. And it is my furnace. My power house. The brooding field that generates the fusion energy that powers my fingertips to tap on this keyboard; connected to a brain that feeds them ideas. So: Fingers (tap my words) – Brain (feed me ideas) – Bi-polar (is my furnace). So there you have it. My most honest and intimate blog post ever. Please keep reading. I need you.

whoshallibetoday?.com

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Why I write

SOME BEINGS are made for living and some beings are made for feeling. I was made to feel. Those who feel like me don’t live. So lost are we in our feelings, that it seems to me, that we inhabit an altogether different world. Not the living world but a world just as real - though realism is a relative concept I think. The world we inhabit, and by we I am of course referring to the ‘feelers’, is it seems, more sensual and savoury than the one existing out there. The world of feelings is fashioned from within and there it remains - pure. The outside world can't touch it and because of this it can assume weird and wonderful forms - like smoke. It is this world, deep down, that I try and illuminate through writing. It is a poor medium I admit but I have no other tools at my disposal. I am a lousy painter, nor can I draw or sing or direct. This is all I have: a set of twenty six letters and a lousy grammar to put some order to the orchestra. The whole world can be contained in language, in part because words, once set free, contain all possibilities for expression and thought.

Let me give you an idea of what it is like to live in this world of feeling. Have you ever travelled alone on a train? If you have than you must have looked out of the window – am I right? And when you looked out of the window were you in another world than the one you were observing through the glass? I am of course referring to thoughts, or to be more precise, being lost in thoughts. This is what it is like for me. I am always looking out of the window – (my eyes) – at a world I don’t notice at all as it flashes by - because I am elsewhere. ‘I am elsewhere’ lets consider this statement for a moment. To someone sitting opposite observing me I am definitely not elsewhere but right in front of them. But that is their view and I beg to differ. I am most certainly not there, despite my physical presence, which I admit serves to keep me tethered there, so to speak; but in actuality, in the reality that I trust and know; that is the reality of my thoughts and feelings, I am elsewhere. It is difficult for me to describe this place where I spend a lot of my time. Perhaps my language is ill-equipped for the task in hand and my fingers too clumsy to lift the pieces of my world for you to see. Perhaps I should give up writing for good? Put a full stop to it all. For if my fingers are too clumsy what is the point? No, I can't give up. What else is there for me to do?

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The tale of the exposed magic conjuror

Forward

Firstly, I would like to thank you in advance for gifting me some of your time in joining me. Time, I have been reliably informed, is a finite commodity that must be put to good use. As I sit here writing this in my little room (yes, the ‘poets room’) I can’t help but feeling a little sad that I am no longer in the hot and sultry climes in which this tale took place. But no matter, I will take pleasure in my memory, for I am wealthy in that respect, and I will no doubt try my utmost to conjur to you, my readers, a flavour and feel for the location - as if by magic! If I am successful in this regard than I will have succeeded in my novice and humble aim. The tale takes place in the desert city of Jodhpur in Rajasthan. The tale you are about to hear is true. It may have been lightly ‘seasoned’ here and there, since I am an artist, with an artists licence, but I assure you that the seasoning is not so overpowering so as to remove any trace of the original flavour. So, I bid you to relax and enjoy the tale of the exposed magic conjuror.

____

The first thing I did upon my arrival in Jodhpur was to satisfy the flame of my curiosity by going around the city, if only to enjoy the sweets of liberté. I spent several days abandoning myself solely to this pursuit of wanderlust. How delightful it is! This life of child’s play! I spent my god given hours roaming and prying-open the curtains of this muddling theatre. Amongst the hawkish denizens I ambled. Shoulder to shoulder I jostled with the best of them, delighting in the sweetmeat stalls, savouring the piquant foodstuffs and munching peanuts and tossing the shells behind me as I wended my way through the gaps. Suddenly I came across a tight knot of people up ahead. I could hear raised voices and spied frantic hand gestures amidst the crowd: 'Ah, an argument' I thought. Having nothing better to do with my time and feeling mischievous I decided to see what the fuss was all about. I asked one of the spectators what was happening. Apparently one of the street conjurors, that band of itinerants who dabble in 'magic' street displays, had been exposed as a fraud. The crowd was not pleased and were getting into an angry huff. This man (in the image above) standing in the middle of the crowd, proudly, imperiously, had been ratted out as a trickster. He knew no magic! He had no powers! He couldn't summon daemons at will nor could he talk to the dead or levitate or live till one hundred and fifty years old on water and solar-energy alone. He was a charlatan and the crowd was enjoying witnessing his toppling from his lofty perch! Crowds love that don’t they? The mob enjoys nothing better than to marinate a good man in the mud, to witness the public lynching of a person of previous repute. Justice and equality! ‘We’re dirt and now you’re dirt too!’

I looked on amused. The man was looking clearly defiant; back straight, chin up, his eyes un-wielding in their stubbornness. This was his patch and his livelihood and he wasn't going to budge. I decided there and then that I liked him. Yes, I liked him. He was my kind of personage and deep down I was rooting for him. Eventually somebody informed him that if he didn't move he'd be clobbered and set upon by the indignant crowd; their frustrations now boiling up inside, mounting to a frenzy, ready to pounce. Instinctively (for I don’t recall actually thinking this through), I grabbed my camera, jumped to the front of the crowd and commenced taking pictures of the accused. ‘Travel magazine! Travel magazine!’ I cried out in loud clear English. The crowd who were ready to pounce stopped in their tracks and looked on bemused. You can imagine the scene. Now, there are two rules one must abide by in such potentially lethal situations: a) look confident, b) never look anyone in the eye and just keep taking photographs (and if you have run out of memory space? – just pretend). I was shoving people around getting them to move out of my way - all an act designed to feign importance. Why did I do it?

Good question. You see, the thing is; and I am going to be brutally honest to you my dear readers, I have a compulsive-impulsive side to my character. I am prone to impulsive actions especially if they carry the risk of doing me harm. Sometimes, and this my readers may find abhorrent, I long for harmful situations. I actively seek them if only to enjoy the exalted pleasure of wriggling myself out of them! In short I am a masochist (but not a sexually deviant one). Luckily for me, the crowd immediately dispersed and it was all over in an instant – I thanked providence that I wasn’t another statistic in an Indian public lynching. What intrigued me most about the whole affair though, was that, not more than a few yards away, stood another street conjuror performing the same 'magic' trick. Not a single person in the crowd bothered him! Surely they've all been exposed I thought? But no! I asked one of the spectators who was still mulling about, why the other man performing the same 'magic' was not being slandered and abused by the crowd. His response was typical of a certain type of impoverished mind whose wondrous workings I shall try and illuminate for you:

'How do you know he is not performing magic?' he challenged me.
The retort surprised me at first. But I was quick to answer.
'Well, if the man who was caught is a trickster and fraud surely they all are?' I said, and then feeling more confident of my argument, I added 'especially if they're performing the same magic trick?'
'Not at all' he said with utmost conviction and with the air of a conceited academic. 'That doesn't logically follow. Your logic is false. That man over there. The one you claim to be a trickster. I know him. His magic is real'

I almost choked on my peanuts. I looked on dumbfounded. Was I really hearing this? It felt surreal at the time. I also recall developing a sudden urge to punch him in the face. His crime in my eyes? imbécilité.

'You know him? You call that logic?' I scoffed with some annoyance
'Yes. I do. Jadoo (magic) is real. There are many sages who have true light in them. But not everybody is blessed with the ability to express it. Some people, who are fraudulent characters, try and exploit the gullibility of simple people by pretending to know magic. It is fortunate we have this 'good' one. There are other good one's too'
'Did it occur to you' I asked him in restrained tones 'that the only reason that man was exposed is because somebody wanted to take over his patch?'
He shrugged his shoulders. I was going down a path he had no intention of walking.

The man I was speaking to was clearly intelligent. He was well spoken and, I would hazard a guess, had a university education and a good job somewhere. I reasoned that if this man represented the upper echelons of the educated elite, what horrors would I find; I asked myself not entirely unmischievously, if I was to poke around the skull of a pure rustic - a country bumpkin - a yokel?

I have no idea what I would find. For I have no intention of poking about such a persons skull lest it consume my own. And the moral of this story? I’m not sure exactly. Does every story have to have a moral? ‘Yes’, you say. Well in that case I suppose the moral of this story can be: people with impulsive-compulsive disorders have no business wandering about in third world countries amongst blood-thirsty crowds, who would no sooner lynch their own grandmothers, if they were discovered to be witches!
Yes, I know it's a bit silly, but it's all I can think of right now. I've been typing for far too long and I need to surrender myself, wholly and totally, to deep sleep.

The End

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