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.

____

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
_____

Apricot dawn: Apricot sun tossed into pearly sky - watch it explode into million shards of light that

s
p
r
i
n
k
l
e

to earth,

f
a
l
l
i
n
g

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

e
c
a
f
r
u
s

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

_____

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

****

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?

****

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

****

The poets room

***The Poets Room***

The poets room
has nothing in it.
No comfortable furniture,
no radio, no voices,
no clocks ticking, nothing
except the beat in your ear, of blood
pulsing through your heart.

Do you hear?

In the poets room
your favorite movies, start twitching
on the empty walls, whenever
you are brave enough
to chase your images
with words.

Do you see?

In a future of few books,
your mind a library of hush
where crowds devour your creations.
Others enter,
not knowing whether to worship, or bow
in your direction.

Do you believe?

Back to the poets room
friendly in a fantastical way
where you can taste butterflies
and jump stars as if rocks
and always be someplace else, provided
you have pen and paper
to take you.

Can you fly?

****

Monologue of the dirty motorcycle helmet man

Yes, that's me lying on the pavement. I am a dirty motorcycle helmet man. I sell motorcycle helmets but that is just an excuse because what I really enjoy doing is watching the ladies as they walk pass. You see these 'Bibi's', these demons of my heart; how they flay me so? These college 'ladies' think so much of themselves with their mighty educations and their higher aspirations and their haughty expressions. What am I but a gnat, an earthworm, toiling blindly under the soil; suitable for squishing under their heels. Do you know what it said on my packet when I was born? 'Instructions: 'To be squished under the ladies heels' Oof! Squish me lady do you hear! Hurt me! That is what I am for. Squishing! I have a question for you. Why do you pretend not to see me my lovelies? I am here! Right in front of your eyes on the pavement. Everyday I wait outside the gates of your prestigious 'International Women Only College' just to catch a whiff of those dupattas and skin creams. Say lady, what cream do you use? Oof! You bark! You say I should mind my own business? But it becomes my business when said skin cream invades my private nostril space.

Would you like a motorcycle helmet? 'No' you say. I know what it is. I know what is the matter. I am not good enough isn't it? When was a motorcycle helmet man ever considered eligible? I must live in a dream world, haina? It is all status these days. Status! - Status! - Status! Silver - Gold - Platinum. I am not even bronze. Oof! bronze I am not even stone. I am twigs. Twigs on the funeral pyre! Ash! Yes I am ash. No! even ash gets thrown in the mother Ganges. Oof! I am dirt! Filthy defiling dirt! But listen, come closer, I am more. I am more than this dirt! Don't judge me so crudely. Hear the beat? Do you hear! It beats so loud at night even the owl's are scared. That beat is my status. Do you hear? You don't agree? 'Do I disappoint you? Do I leave a bad taste in your mouth?'. Do you know who that is? That is words from a famous song of the Western Kingdom. The mighty U2. I know what you're thinking. What do I know about such Western bestern things? Haina? Ha! This motorcycle helmet man knows much lady fool! I have depths. Deep trenches. Gaping ruts. Ravines that plunge down down down. There is much to see and explore. I am no hollow coconut. No fancy pancy oily gangster - the type you fancy no doubt. You think I have nothing? Let me show you nothing. Lady let me introduce you to Mr Nothing!

You see? Mr Nothing really has nothing. Poor man rummages through scraps of the heaps. With his rummaging partner the pariah dog. He is worse than a dog for a dog has no choice, but a man! Tut-tut. A man can choose. You see? I am not so bad! I have some thoughts. With a bit of work I may even have ideas and who knows one day even ideals. Haina? And another thing I don't smell neither. Unlike Mr poo poo Nothing over there sniffing in the dustbins. I have prospects and I have a skill. Selling motorcycle helmets is not easy-peasy lady-mystery. It is a mystery. An art. Many bahainchaut scoundrels out there trying to fleece you off a few rupees. What are a few rupees you say? A few rupees a day make a man, over a life, a millionaire! Not that I don't expect to move up in the world from my motorcycle helmets. Oh, yes. I will be going somewhere. It is up and up for me. It is also up to you if you are coming on this boat. For I am leaving these shores and heading for Eldorado - the fabled city of gold!

So are you coming? - No? Oof! You are most brutal! Their is cruelty in you! Suit you! Don't expect me to look at you tomorrow. I will ignore you. My eyes will be elsewhere. No, not on another lady! I may be a motorcycle helmet man but I have pride and I have a mother. Yes a mother! What has a mother got to do with anything you ask? Let me finish. I have a mother. And she chose me. And so did God. They both chose me. And for that I am grateful. If only God would choose to help me sell more motorcycle helmets. If only! He can do that for me can't he lady? Surely it is within His powers whose magnificence created the light show I sleep under? Look! I have a customer! See, I told you I am going places. This is a portent. He has heard me! Eldorado here I come! Today it feels good to be a motorcycle helmet man. Tomorrow who knows. But today I feel, right now, at this moment, that motorcycle helmet man is king!

Oof! You giggle! I see you. Don't try hiding it from me. Why do you giggle so? Do I make you laugh? Or do you take pity on me? Oof! Arai, I see you smile. Come here lady. I want to tell you something. Listen: My father (God bless his soul) once put his arms around my shoulders and with a solemn voice said to me. 'Son, remember these words. You might be a motorcycle helmet man, or a chimney sweep, or a dhobi wallah, or a toilet cleaner flushing turds down the hole, or any of these things, but always remember, that no matter what or who you are, or what you do in the world, an apple tastes the same no matter how fortunate or unfortunate the tongue that tastes it'. Ah! You see what fine words he spoke! My father the philosopher. So, look here. I have in my pocket an apple. I bet that it will taste the same to me as to you. Shall we try?

Oof! What do you mean it is not washed!

****

The Monster Munch

The poetry of rural India

Skidding across the continent and scuffing my heels I greedily swallow the lives that flash by me. Lives of rest and lives of woe. I swallow entire lives but they leave no taste. And many times they leave no impression too. These are the lives that left an impression. These foto grafs were taken on the long road to Mumbai. It is mid morning and the sun is struggling to be heard through the veil of a dusty shroud. I often wondered why the landscape had such a forlorn aspect in the mornings. Many times you could see the vultures circling already - before the day had even blinked. Many times it felt like a dream. Are these people people or are they ghosts? Did I see these things? I often wonder whether I was there. It seems like another life to me.

The story of this man is the story of a path unknown to me. I glimpse but that is all I can hope for; a glimpse. We must walk our own paths. Chosen or otherwise. Ah, Reflections! Reflections! I can see what you're thinking. Are these mine own reflections? Can you see them in the water? My reflections?

Such scenes are repeated everyday. Mile upon mile. Life upon life. I view these with a strangely singular eye. Seeing but not watching. Watching but not seeing. Sometimes an image condenses and leaves an impression; like breathing on a cold window pane. This image is rectangular and two dimensional, but life is not. But there is more! Behind this image there is much more! You just gotta look.

We are treading the same path. Will it lead to where I want to go? Perhaps this family knows. Should I ask them? If I am lucky they will not laugh in my face. 'Where are you going?' I often wonder this question of my subjects. 'Where are you going in such a hurry people?' Can I come too? - sometimes they even let me.

The story of an image

Foto grafy is a game of patience. A game you play with yourself. That's all it takes really, patience. You have to spend hours waiting for the 'decisive moment' where the elements in the frame all come together to complete the image. In the case of this image I'd been waiting at the T-junction for about two hours. I'm usually very patient and more than happy to lounge on the pavements edge watching the wheels and the world go by. I remember that it'd been raining heavily that day and though I was wearing my poncho, I was still feeling wet and cold. The sky was gray overcast and the clouds were looking menacing in the distance. I'd taken some shots earlier that day but I knew they were mediocre. I was on the verge of giving up when, thanks to Providence, this lady appeared. I saw her shuffling towards me in the far distance so I got into position and waited. Luckily there was nobody else in the frame when I took the shot. You know what they say don't you: fortune favours the patient - and, might I add, the wet and the cold and the miserable!

The story of an image

Kolkata is teeming with images like this. Its streets are a rainbow tapestry for the voyeur. I spent a whole week in Kolkata. A week I shall never forget. How can you? How can you forget scenes like this? There are no shades in Kolkata - only contrasts. I remember the first morning I arrived. I checked into my room, grabbed my camera, a couple of lenses, memory cards, polarisers, spare battery, sunglasses, bottle of water, and headed straight out onto the streets. I didn't return till the next morning! I'd been out all night; wandering, partaking, soaking, seeing and finally believing. I was headed for the worst places. I wanted to know if I could stand them. Places of beauty and hope hold no interest for me because they are not places of extremes. To feel alive I need to see life lived on the very edge of existence - that dirty spot on the edge of the tablecloth. Of course I got lost, but that's half the point. The next morning I stumbled back to the guest house and told the manager where I'd been. He took me aside and told me I was a fool! Why do I do it? I've asked myself this many times. They say that coming close to death brings you closer to life. Perhaps this is my way of getting closer to the essence of life? The pall of the anaesthetic of familiarity of everyday existence can be numbing. Is this my equivalent of a shot in the arm? I want to drink from the cup of life. I want to experience life in all its forms and structures and rituals and consciences. I want to step outside myself, take off this 'biological suit' called Wasim and put on a new suit called 'someone else'. I don't want to be Me always. Always Me is boring. I want to be You and You and You and yes You. I want to be everybody at least once. I want to be the little girl in this image and the mother that tied her up and the father that doesn't care and the street vendor who sees her everyday playing in the fucking dirt. I want to be the man that walks past her and doesn't notice and the man who sees her and can't take it.

The story of an image

I took this fotograf on my way to the ancient city of Fatehpur Sikri in India. I remember the moment clearly. I was sitting in the front seat of the bus with my camera in my lap feverishly snapping away. It was a hot dusty day, the window was down and my lungs were drowning in dust. And then this open-backed vehicle appeared up ahead. The boys were evidently on their way somewhere to make a delivery; though why you would need so many of them is any one's guess! You could probably make up a little story about them. Anyway, I remember they were looking at me, intrigued by me; me being this 'feranji' sitting in the front of the bus snapping away like a madman! I waved at them in a friendly sort of way and they returned the compliment by waving back and then one of them (you can see his head between the bodies if you click on the image) stuck his head out and made a funny face (or perhaps that is his normal face). Anyway, at that exact moment a group of girls appeared into view so that was my cue to take a shot. I think the image works well. There is a symmetry to it and a comic element. A lot of fotografy is about what 'Henri Cartier Bresson' called 'the decisive moment'. I'd hate to be in that truck though. Looks most uncomfortable!

The space journal of a heretic (folio II)

Friday 24th Nov, 2876
On board deep-space mining vessel 'Aluvium' : transporter of heretics to farthest reaches of the galaxy

'I am commencing an undertaking, hitherto without precedent, and which will never find an imitator. I desire to set before my fellows the likeness of a man in all the truth of nature, and that man [is] myself.
Myself alone! I know the feelings of my heart, and I know men. I am not made like any of those I have seen; I venture to believe that I am not made like any of those in existence. If I am not better, at least I am different. Whether Nature has acted rightly or wrongly in destroying the mould in which she cast me, can only be decided after I have been read...This is what I have done, what I have thought, what I was'
('Confessions' - by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, 1776)


Confession! Confession! Confession! :-
It was many dawns ago during the reign of the Spanish Inquisition that heretics were condemned to death by the tasty method of burning alive. On the eve of execution, as a sort of appetiser, the poor condemned wretches were paraded along the square. Their heavy shackles picking their ankles to the bone as they shuffled along the rutted path. The boisterous crowds booing at the procession; spitting in their faces, flinging at them horse shit and gawking for pleasure. And besides the heretics always a priest scuttling along side them, with bible clutched in one hand, and with the other hand dodging the horse shit missiles. The priest whispering in their ears in quick-fire guttural, imploring them to renounce their heresies, to save their souls from eternal damnation. And who were these unfortunate heretics? Protestants, witches, Jews, Moslem's, non-believers, sodomites, homosexuals, mutants, freaks of nature, sufferers of Huntingdon's disease, they were all put to the flames. None were spared the wrath of the holy inquisitors. A bonfire hell on earth.

I can imagine their screams. They travel through the ages on the breath of time and whisper to me in my dreams. Death was slow and deliciously painful. I'll elaborate a little further for your delectation. First the skin around the legs would start peeling from the heat. Above a certain temperature the fat content in the legs reaches melting point and melts. As the flames swoop up and gather pace the bodies writhe in excruciating agony. But still very much alive and in full awareness of the horror befalling them. The hair catches fire, internal organs explode from the pressure, blood colludes, the crowd jeers. Can you imagine a more gruesome faith? The medieval crowds lapped it up. For it was entertainment and all the better for it being real and them being heretics. In their final death throes the burning wretches would renounce their sins, plead forgiveness, scream for help and only then would the jeering stop and the crowd be silenced. The flames now total. The souls now departed. Peace at last. Ahh! oblivion!

In those days you could be burnt for thinking. For thinking that man's destiny was in his hands, for thinking that god did not intervene in everyday matters, for thinking that people born with deformities were not (as it was believed) the payback of their parents sins, but rather the result of a physical phenomenon in the womb, for thinking that the earth went around the sun, for thinking that man can improve his lot by rising though the ranks and was not therefore confined to the social strata in which he was born, for thinking, for thinking, for thinking. For nothing is more vilified, nothing is more despised, nothing is more hated than the serf who thinks. If only they'd left those explosive heresies safely locked up in their heads - where no man may see them. The incendiary thoughts hidden in the skull. But what good is that? What good are thoughts if they cannot be flung across the globe like seeds; taking root in people's minds and lighting the sparks of a million glorious mutinies. A billion stars born.

I remember when as a child I'd walk pass 'The Commissars of the Holy' and bow in deference. But if only they could see what horrid (to them) little thoughts I beheld at those moments: You can take away my tongue but my thoughts are tongueless!

And what now? Well now they've invented the 'device'. Implanted at birth so now even our thoughts don't belong to us. Stolen! Private property! You can no longer hide and take comfort in those quiet places anymore. They'll find you even there. What is left? Tongueless, thoughtless humanity - the world now stupid and mute. But alas I am free of all that. A long ago memory. As I look through the window in my cabin I see space for what it is: The absence of everything and yet containing everything. How can something be so empty and yet be so full? Soon the distance will be so great that I fear it will drown out, smother my memories, in a nothingness. My memories a grain of sand in a blackness that has no edge. No edge and no end it seems. I must get off this ship.

The art of cool

I'm cool cos I don't give a shit
I'm cool cos this playground is not big enough for me
I'm cool cos I wake up, look in the mirror and say 'hey man, who's this cool guy!'
I'm cool cos I brush my teeth with an electric toothbrush
I'm cool cos I have a G-Star jacket that makes me look really cool, like it should
I'm cool cos G-Star cool jacket + cool me + electric toothbrush = super cool guy!
I'm cool cos I've read 'War and Peace' and it was shit
I'm cool cos nobody knows who I am
I'm cool cos I don't know who I am
I'm cool cos I don't wanna know who I am
I'm cool cos when God made my brain he rewarded himself by taking a long holiday
I'm cool cos God's still on that holiday
I'm cool cos I'm wearing a digital watch I bought in Guatemala...off a blind man with no dick
I'm cool cos I exist
I'm cool cos when I walk down the street people wanna know why I look so cool
I'm cool cos people wanna sit next to me on buses and feel the force
I'm cool cos I have laser-beam eyes that see through stuff
I'm cool cos I can make you laugh
I'm cool cos I can make you cry
I'm cool cos I can make you see
I'm cool cos I am free
To be me...

Whoever that may be.


Yeah, I think I'm definitely cool

****

The selfish orgasm

The orgasm. What is it about? Let me rephrase: is it selfish or altruistic? i.e. is it about the fulfilment of the partner or the fulfilment of the self?

Imagine two lovers. Having sex. During the period leading up to orgasm the two lovers are able to experience a feeling of unbridled and untamed abandonment to one another. Yes, abandonment. Gone is shyness. Gone is restraint. Gone is frigidness. They no longer pay attention to what the self is doing or what the partner is doing. All the movements take care of themselves, as if reflexively. The sensations greedily absorbed by the vulva, externally and through deep interior pressure, tell the vaginal cavity how to selfishly pulsate, ripple, quiver, and contract on the penis, in order to release itself in orgasm. Reciprocally, the penis selfishly probes and presses, twists a little, it too greedily building up its own orgasmic pleasure. The two bodies writhe in an ascending orchestra. And then the stars explode - just for affect.

And here's the crucial part: the two minds drift into the oblivion of attending only to their own feeling, so perfectly synchronized that the ecstasy of the one is the reciprocal ecstasy of the other. Two minds, mindlessly lost in one another. This is the perfect orgasmic experience. This is how an orgasm sighs, moans, exclaims, expires, exhausts itself into exultant rest. It is selfishness incarnate. You don't care how the partner feels...it's your own sexual fulfilment that matters.

But how could it be otherwise? Are we not separate bodies? Distinct entities? No amount of orgasmic communion could possibly bridge that physical gap. The gap of our bodies.

****

Mmm...Or maybe I'm just talking rubbish? Huh?

I always talk rubbish.

But it's good rubbish, no?

Good rubbish is better than no rubbish

I like my rubbish

It makes me feel alive

Does it make you feel alive too?

The space journal of a heretic

Thur 23rd Nov, 2876
On board Deep-Space mining vessel 'Aluvium' : transporter of heretics to farthest reaches of the Galaxy


LONG JOURNEYS are not good for the soul. Too much idle time to wander and pick clean the shores of one's history. There is the physical discomfort aboard a sailing vessel too. The cramp space, the humdrum life, the sickness, the pickled beef and briny stews that you can barely chew (so you add vinegar to soften the tendons), the chaffing of heads, the endless-seamless-monotonous sea of stars, the wasting of muscles, and of course a constant reminder of what you have left behind and the uncertainty of what’s to come…life is strange. Could it be any stranger?

In the olden days, mighty wooden vessels; creaking and tossing, would ply across the seas so wide, their sails catching the winds, winds that would fling em' from pole to pole, from place to place. Places barely imaginable – places you never new existed other than inside a madman's skull. And all for what? For bounty, for truth, for God and for glory. What’s in the heart of these men that journey through strife unimaginable by others left behind?

There are those whose hearts are greedy; whose sole reason to endure such things is aggrandizement; to quench that bottomless sink in their hearts. Can such hearts be quenched? Is there a fixed quantity of drinking from the cup of 'want' that such hearts will suddenly say: my thirst is quenched, I lay down my cup, I am done! Can that be possible? But those of us who know the true nature of want, and I lay stress here on true, can categorically say that there is no quenching the hearts of these sorts. For the oceans and lands are endless and men’s desires grow with the horizon as it expands its belt.

There is another type aboard. A more noble type one might say; though this is my own opinion and I lay it down here. A type not fooled by wants and greed’s; though this type does not in the least show disdain for his unpalatable shipmates. For he knows that men are simple beasts though they may think themselves exalted by god’s grace – Ha! God’s grace! He laughs! Such a man does not in his heart at least entertain a disdain for these sorts, for deep down, he knows nay very well understands the forces at play in the game of destinies. For we are all touched by the same gravities.

Such a man then, so opposite in character to his shipmates, nonetheless is aboard this ship, but what drives this man; what is the nature of the devil that shovels coals into his inner furnace. And by god! It is a furnace! If ye could only see and feel it. A mighty roaring fire of licking flames that bellows soot and such stuff, and yet, there it burns and there it remains in such a man. There is grief there. For I have seen it and felt its fiery temper. An endless well of grief that stamps its hooves and smokes its nostrils and threatens to overwhelm, yet through some miraculous act of Providence, it remains pacified. Yes, there is passion, deep seething passion inside such a man – but tempered by the hand of a rational kind and the gentle winds of the dust clouds that blow astern. But do not let the outwardly countenance of such a man make you think that he is not driven. There is conflict in him, an unreconciled conflict that cannot be appeased by anything on this world but by something far away, beyond reckoning.

He has been forsaken...a heretic. But how far can you be cast and for how long; for life is a sphere and you will always end up from whence you started. We all do. We travel but only in our minds. The only real travelling we do is birth to death. And even that is a mere flicker in the expanse of cosmic everything.

They didn't want him...a heretic. We are all born of the same earth and breathe the same air and sleep under the same stars. Can someone truly say that you do not belong? Are we not all made from the very same star dust? Am I not deserving!

Alas, I have given myself away. My name is Yakoob. And I am a heretic.

This is my confession:


(To be continued)

Coming soon...the continuing (and never ending) adventures of Super-fly!

Valentines Day (Oh no, not again)

I don’t do love very well. I’ve never really got a grip of them; the words that is. They always come out mangled as if someone’s been at them with a chainsaw. Soar? No, they don’t soar. The words don’t even get off the ground. What are words but squiggles on a screen - musical notes – the slant of copperplate – the inflections of desire. What is the most hackneyed combination of words in the whole world? ‘I - love – you’ – overused and over abused. What does that stupid phrase mean anyway? ‘I – love - you’. Who invented it? It sounds like something someone who doesn’t have anything to say, would say. Perhaps that is its appeal?


‘Love is being in love with the idea of somebody being in love with you’


Love is selfish. Love is narcissism. Think about it. But don’t think too much.

I know this is going to sound a little crude so I hope you’ll forgive me. It is something I was thinking about the other day. A little test: if you want to know whether you ‘really’ love someone. And I mean love them for who they are and not as a device for sex, than ask yourself how you feel about them after you’ve had a wank. If your desire for them takes a nose dive than you only want them for sex! Good huh? Sick huh?

Here’s another question: What is the purpose of love? Why do we ache and suffer for this crazy little thing called love? – What is it’s (as the French so nicely put it) Raison d’être? (Reason for being). Everything has a utility function. The utility function of feelings of romantic love is quite simply procreation. I.e. babies. Let me rephrase it:

I am in madly in love with you because my brain releases certain chemical compounds when I see and think about you. These chemicals released by my brain strengthen certain neural ‘connections’ – thus leading to feelings of being helplessly, hopelessly, head over heels, madly in love with you. My brain releases these chemicals because it has been programmed to do so. I have inherited this programmed ability from the genes of my ancestors. My ancestors passed on this ability to their descendants when they had children. The ancestors that had children and thus who passed on those genes for feeling romantic love were those who ‘fell in love’ themselves.

In short: thank God my ancestors fell in love…and had children. Love is good because humans who fall in love have children. All my ancestors going back millions of years fell in love and had children. Not a single one of them said: ‘Nah, I don’t think I’ll bother’. Some people might flinch at my scientific determinism; the reducing of love down to its base principles – thus taking away from its emotional beauty. Don’t get me wrong. Love is beautiful and wonderful – probably the seminal experience of the human condition and I am not trying to degrade it here. All I’m saying is that looking at love from a different angle helps one to see it differently – giving it a new twist. Also, I may ‘know’ that the raison d’être for love is to ‘encourage’ humans to have children but that doesn’t mean that I am not affected by it. Though I can see through the screen of its trickery, though I can say ‘Oh love! I know what you're up to. You don't fool me!’, ultimately my brain is human and love affects me in exactly the same way as it affects you or anybody else.

There was something else I was thinking about the other day. It’s an interesting thought and I’d like to share it with you. The world is populated with 8 billion people. 4 billion of these are male or female. Excluding those who are too young or too old, that means that there is a vast reservoir of people with whom you could ‘potentially’ fall in love with. Yet, when you fall in love you believe that this ‘one’ person is the only person for you. That you some how managed to chance upon them and are lucky to have them! What I am getting at is the 'exclusivity' of love. Human don’t fall in love with two or three people at once – it’s usually one - one out of billions. What is the probability that you would bump and fall in love with the ‘one’ out of a pool of billions? The reasons we fall in love with that ‘one’ is not because they are the ‘one’ but because they live near us, work with us, are a friend of friends or family, that we accidentally bump into them in the supermarket. The reasons for our infatuation are more prosaic than we'd like to admit. Obviously there are compatibility criteria, but even within those compatibility criteria, there are still a hell of a lot of potential people you could fall in love with.

And yet when you fall in love you think that this is the only person for you and you’ll never find anybody else! This thought always fills me with wonder. This irrational coup de foudre. Another way to put it is to say that within the limits of compatibility, who you fall in love with is more or less out of your control! Yet ask any couple and they'll say that they were ‘destined to be’, that it was ‘written in the stars’ or that it couldn't have been any other way. The laws of probability say otherwise. The human brain is just not very good at seeing the inter connectivity of the world and how these invisible forces conspire in our lives.

In my daily life there are a whole bunch of people I could potentially fall in love with. People who are rushing by me all the time; on London’s bustling trains, buses, on the streets, in the market, serving me in the shop, in the bookshop. In a parallel universe I may fall in love with one of them. In another parallel universe with another and in yet another universe I might get knocked over by a bus…well who knows. We are slaves to forces beyond our comprehension. Like pawns in a celestial chess game we scuttle along the three dimensions of a multi-dimensional universe. Cause and affect. Love and love-lost. Paradise and paradise-lost – if we really understood these things perhaps we’d be masters of the universe? Cool huh?

I know what you're thinking. Am I master of the universe?
(wink) course I am.


I Hate Valentines Day (an exercise in alliterative distress - apologies for it's general crappyness as I've had to rush it!)

I hate valentines’ day
Cos it really sucks
These blokes with cards
Never seen so many mugs

Dairy and Milk chocolates
For their ‘other’ halves
Hope they get fat
and a kick up the ass

Am I jealous?
No, why would I be?
Hey, my life is cool man
I have Nintendo Wii!

Though I'll still wander
Like a crafty little fox
A peak tomorrow morn
Into my letter box

You never know I might
Have admirers of sorts
In Cuba, Guatemala or Burma
Gotta be in some bodies thoughts

Though I doubt very much
Doubt very much I do
The only card I’m getting
Is from Timbuktu

Oh, what’s this I found?
Some chocolates on my bed!
Wow! Let’s take a closer look
Ugh! Its rat droppings instead!

That’s just my luck you see
Please don’t feel sorry - for me
Valentine day’s not for everybody
Especially not for me

Maybe god will feel sorry
And bless my little heart
Send an angel down from heaven
With a cheap Valentines card

Though it’s not how cheap
Nor how expensive
What really counts is;
That there is at least something!

That somebody has thought of you
And you amongst billions
Am I really that special?
A grain of sand out of a trillion!

Wow! What a feeling that is
Someone thinks you’re special
And doesn’t think you belong
In a mental hospital

If I had you for a day
On Valentines Day I would;
Not buy you a present
Like I know I should:

But instead:

I'd cuddle you for two minutes
Instead of one
And listen to you non-stop
Even if you drove me nuts

Offer you two slices of pizza
Instead of the one
And let you watch TV
Yeah, watch whatever you want!

I’d cuddle you with arms
And cuddle you with legs
And just when you're thinking 'Thank God it's over'
I’d cuddle you in bed

Can you do that?
I wonder if you can
Cuddle someone forever
I don’t know; maybe I’m mad

I wonder how many cuddles
I have in me to give
Millions and squillions I bet
You watch this Valentines;
I’ll be cuddling myself to bed.

****

The Wretch of Me

Oh inspiration! Where art thou hidden? I beseech you to flee hither and set free my woes - and my toes; so I may dance. I wish to smell the kindling flames. But where are you damn inspiration? Under the bed I see you not, nor in my pockets - though my pockets are burdened with despair and my mind clogged with suds and sops. I wish to bury my head in my hands; these soft, un-calloused hands of mine – but it’s no use. My lofty ideas have depleted me and I am spent and hungry. It’s all emptiness - as far as I can see. But you inspiration! Where the devil are you man? For I need you to sit at the tip of my pen, this pen, this lance of my anguish. Yes this lance! - This lance that assuages my boils - these rotten, horrid and puss filled boils that ail me much. It is the writers’ lot to live in despair! We, beings; though I doubt we are deserving of such a lofty title as ‘being’ for there is no ‘being’ within us; like shadows we wander life’s back-alley ways collecting the spent out shells of people’s lives.

The nights! Oh the nights I’ve spent staring. Staring at this bare sheet of paper! I say: Write! Write! Damn pen of mine write if you are a friend to me. But nothing! It won’t listen. It tells me: ‘How can I write my lord without the guiding hand of inspiration?’
‘The devil take you!’ I ferment…it’s all a mystery to me. Like fickle seasons: there are days when ideas come cheaply - flowing from fevered head to conduit; my pen, whose ink won’t flow fast enough. And there are days when all is dry like a thrifty tight-fisted Jew or the plains of Ethiop.

But why does one write? Because one feels? No rubbish! It is catharsis! Catharsis! It’s all a dismal business anyway. What is its design? Ha! There is no design. It is conceit; though dressed in fine garbs of eloquence and lofty phrases. It is deceit! - the flogging of one’s heart in public. There is pain and pleasure too in this flogging business if you’ll only believe me. Oh yes! We writers are merchants of self-pity. It is our lucre – our currency. We pity ourselves but deep down we glory in the grandeur of our humiliation. I should be executed and left to rot. Rotting is too good for me. Feed me to the Zoroastrian vultures; let my sinews drive their muscles, let my flesh power their wings, I wish to soar…

****