The final chapter of this wonderful series will take its final bow. Please applaud. It has been my only escape, a creative orgasm after work, an explosion of senses, emotions and randomly told stories.
The dreaded Saturday was upon me. My mundane routine would begin an hour late, hopefully enough time to recuperate and get into the zone again. Thankfully, a well deserved break was handed to me. Which I spent doing absolutely nothing, waiting for the evening. I wondered if I could take some more, just a little.
I was game.
The promise of a tower and companions from the past, I strode in again. With the confidence of matador, I warmed up. Soon I was joined by people I knew, the past came rushing back. The three of us, strangers to each other, split in interests, skewed in our own life, sitting on the same table bound together by a vice.
After a few warm-ups, the conversation started to flow almost as freely as the refreshments. Confused individuals often find a way to bridge the silence and the most debatable of topics rise from the awkward ashes of conversation.
My weekends usually end when the clock crosses on to Sunday. I don’t do anything on Sunday. Even God rested on Sunday, I can imagine him in a big cloak, unshaved, idling time, speeding it up when required. Wasting the day, People pray on that day when God got wasted. Attaboy!
Atheist? Me? No.
As the topic swung and swerved, I drove to down to a veranda in the past. The glorious amorous evenings, filled with cigarettes, conversation and sunsets. A lonely spot, hidden by pillars and trees, Sex & Religion was eagerly discussed. It was almost taboo.
My words haunted me, the memories egged me on.
For years have humans looked at the sky, at the zig zagging lines on their palm, dregs of tea, even stared into foggy crystal balls to solve the question of existence. To explain what logic could not, they found their favorite flogging boy—God.
God?
Why is there an obsession with a human form of worship? From the time human beings learnt to speak they have debated, argued and continue to kill on their concept of god. The entire proposition has been doubted and then proved. The eventual solution—nothing. Human beings have tried very hard to find protection in a familiar face, either parents, a nest or even a good night’s sleep after work. All religions, I believe have stemmed from worshiping the elements. Fire, Water, Earth and Air. Co-incidentally the zodiac signs as well. No one pays attention these days. Human beings then needed Fire to cook, Water to drink, Earth to grow and Air to breathe. Simple times. Logical times. As time swept past them, the needs grew and so did a need for governance. Politicians took shape. How long can a man resist flattery before he gives in? The self taught took control and soon became kings. This is when the concept of god in a human/ semi human form emerged. The richest man in all land. He had the strength in numbers. The Alpha male. After the elevation he wanted to control will, and what better way to control will but by laying down laws. The laws of nature were shown the door and laws of the land was soon the now the headlining act. The laws could not be broken, the other side of the law was forbidden. Now repeat this over several generations. The concept of the elements vanished. The king took a demi god status, and thus the church/mosque/ temple was born. A new institution which gave shape to the law. The people’s favorite prophet/ king was made god. A new term was christened. But has some one ever thought, how could man be god. In mortal form?
A human being is shrouded by faults, pitfalls of his own prejudice. Short sighted and very easy to distract. Thus the perfect one could not be man. But then if this “god” could not be man, he could not have a gender. Then what is god?
“I admit there are things which sciences and even elementary logic fail to explain but, I implore you to let me lay down my theories.”
I remember my audience listening. The TV screamed. But they listened. It was either the beer or something that pulled them.
God then has to be something so abstract that fear of an abstract energy put a human face to it and thus followed the eventualities. This could be any kind of energy. A life source—god.
What my point is… Hic. Hic. Hic. Hic.
The cursed hiccups struck.
Conversation then leaked from one flakey topic to the other, it dabbled with sex, sports and back to sex. My weekend was about to end and I had just started stumbling. I began my narcissistic agenda- to mark my territory across half the city, animal style.
After the second packet of cigarettes conversation dragged to a halt, priorities had changed.
Skewed we came, Skewed we left. A few brief drunk hours we spent charting across virgin seas.
Saturday ends, Sunday starts. Remember, God rested today.
"This is the end,Beautiful friend
This is the end, My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end"
Jim Morrison.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Godfather two was never as good as the first one. But this is neither. I still know what you did last weekend. Of distraction, dismay & old friends
Here I am writing part 2. It feels emotionally rich and so versatile to have a story to tell that takes more than one part to express. I feel a little like George Lucas, honest. But unfortunately this story does not take place in a galaxy far far away, though there were times where I did talk like Yoda.
Stumbling home on Thursday, the next morning did not promise rays of sunlight and exuberance. Trundling in was a hangover. The hangover was what I compared to as a pesky urchin, constantly craving attention and little change action. While I smoked my fifth cigarette I decided, this celebration will be highly subdued. I could feel the distinct flavour of screwdrivers creeping into my throat. The clock starts six hours and twenty minutes till my next drink.
Oh sweet mother of god, there is the attractive girl from last night, lower the cap, she must not see. A man is not hungover! She looks hungover.
Does this very chauvinist world allow for women to be hungover? The entire concept of chauvinism emerged—and I believe—from a few who respected the women and stormed forward to protect them from all those who wished harm. Animals, maybe another tribe salivating at the robust waist line. Yes, robust.
After a war of words, grunts and clubs, the man walks back, his jaws set almost in stone, soaking in sweat at the peak of his masculinity, showing off his rippling muscles to the other women, hormone raging amongst other things. He decides to look around, who amongst them challenge him?
The women ran forward, in excitement, “my hero” did they scream? One very carefully lifted the leaf. She chose him.
Women empowerment!
Thus followed the agenda of protection and rewards. Somewhere along the way, the rewards were taken for granted. The barter was lost. Alcohol was introduced! Fighting was reduced to slurred words and shaky feet. The strong jaws faded into loose hanging jowls, the stone hard abs were replaced by a pot bellied. Flatus rotund stomachs. The men were lost, who is to blame? Alcohol!
Oh sweet alcohol I mean no harm to you, after all bottled orange juice was meant for Vodka. Did some one not say that?
While heading to the scene of where an important event unfolded, I was driven in a soon to be a socialist country’s prime enterprise. The conversation veered from public policy to price of petrol. A lot of small talk—hot air. (Flatus again!)
People very adamantly spoke about various aspects of life before I was very rudely shoved in. Insider information. Lowest attrition rate was the tall claim. In this process that has lasted over a year and was dangerously topped with uncertainty, the claim would be impressive if true. But the worst information that could ever be gotten of was the very painfully obvious christening of a brand which was to be piped in no other way but one. Oh stop it. Now, you rub it in.
Amongst probably the longest thank you speech, very politically correct and five screwdrivers some one joined me on the chair next to mine. I have since maintained a board- stay away. And it has certainly worked. But not on this one. She reminded me of a past which had to be forgotten in a hurry. Looking around, my companion from last night was resembling in her polka dotted shirt of some one I left far behind. Too much booze, I told myself. Leave. Let the women bicker. Let the men drink. Let the others smoke. Smoke?
Temptation and I yielded.
Adam and Eve when stood in the Garden of Eden, debating the delicious fruit, the tree was called the tree of knowledge and evil. Would you allow evil to walk in if there was knowledge? What defines knowledge? If there was knowledge of a life of hardship and victories, does it not mean the choice was consensual? The apple was never ground and mixed in their drink. No one distracts, no one can ever evangelize either. Screw you spiritual healing!
The windows of the trains seemed to be turning smaller. How did I get in the train? Did I have a ticket? Yes. The letters danced, the music spoke about blue grass.
What was that again? Was I talking to the phone or on the phone? I heard a familiar voice. I was confused. Did I hear the sea? Rushing sound of the waves on the rocks. The spray, the foam, who was I talking to now? The stations floated in and out. I like fast trains. There were those eerie visions of the past. Why do those faces still haunt me?
Is it really her? Should I call out? What is the etiquette? You still alive? She is on a boat standing upside down. Ha ha, the fool.
Oh these torrential tears. Years since we met. Nice to see you,finally.
Drive me home.
Stumbling home on Thursday, the next morning did not promise rays of sunlight and exuberance. Trundling in was a hangover. The hangover was what I compared to as a pesky urchin, constantly craving attention and little change action. While I smoked my fifth cigarette I decided, this celebration will be highly subdued. I could feel the distinct flavour of screwdrivers creeping into my throat. The clock starts six hours and twenty minutes till my next drink.
Oh sweet mother of god, there is the attractive girl from last night, lower the cap, she must not see. A man is not hungover! She looks hungover.
Does this very chauvinist world allow for women to be hungover? The entire concept of chauvinism emerged—and I believe—from a few who respected the women and stormed forward to protect them from all those who wished harm. Animals, maybe another tribe salivating at the robust waist line. Yes, robust.
After a war of words, grunts and clubs, the man walks back, his jaws set almost in stone, soaking in sweat at the peak of his masculinity, showing off his rippling muscles to the other women, hormone raging amongst other things. He decides to look around, who amongst them challenge him?
The women ran forward, in excitement, “my hero” did they scream? One very carefully lifted the leaf. She chose him.
Women empowerment!
Thus followed the agenda of protection and rewards. Somewhere along the way, the rewards were taken for granted. The barter was lost. Alcohol was introduced! Fighting was reduced to slurred words and shaky feet. The strong jaws faded into loose hanging jowls, the stone hard abs were replaced by a pot bellied. Flatus rotund stomachs. The men were lost, who is to blame? Alcohol!
Oh sweet alcohol I mean no harm to you, after all bottled orange juice was meant for Vodka. Did some one not say that?
While heading to the scene of where an important event unfolded, I was driven in a soon to be a socialist country’s prime enterprise. The conversation veered from public policy to price of petrol. A lot of small talk—hot air. (Flatus again!)
People very adamantly spoke about various aspects of life before I was very rudely shoved in. Insider information. Lowest attrition rate was the tall claim. In this process that has lasted over a year and was dangerously topped with uncertainty, the claim would be impressive if true. But the worst information that could ever be gotten of was the very painfully obvious christening of a brand which was to be piped in no other way but one. Oh stop it. Now, you rub it in.
Amongst probably the longest thank you speech, very politically correct and five screwdrivers some one joined me on the chair next to mine. I have since maintained a board- stay away. And it has certainly worked. But not on this one. She reminded me of a past which had to be forgotten in a hurry. Looking around, my companion from last night was resembling in her polka dotted shirt of some one I left far behind. Too much booze, I told myself. Leave. Let the women bicker. Let the men drink. Let the others smoke. Smoke?
Temptation and I yielded.
Adam and Eve when stood in the Garden of Eden, debating the delicious fruit, the tree was called the tree of knowledge and evil. Would you allow evil to walk in if there was knowledge? What defines knowledge? If there was knowledge of a life of hardship and victories, does it not mean the choice was consensual? The apple was never ground and mixed in their drink. No one distracts, no one can ever evangelize either. Screw you spiritual healing!
The windows of the trains seemed to be turning smaller. How did I get in the train? Did I have a ticket? Yes. The letters danced, the music spoke about blue grass.
What was that again? Was I talking to the phone or on the phone? I heard a familiar voice. I was confused. Did I hear the sea? Rushing sound of the waves on the rocks. The spray, the foam, who was I talking to now? The stations floated in and out. I like fast trains. There were those eerie visions of the past. Why do those faces still haunt me?
Is it really her? Should I call out? What is the etiquette? You still alive? She is on a boat standing upside down. Ha ha, the fool.
Oh these torrential tears. Years since we met. Nice to see you,finally.
Drive me home.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I know what you did last weekend. Told in two, maybe three parts. Better than the movies, not as funny as others. A self deprecatory tale of excess
This is simple. It’s either something I want to remember or something I want to forget. In a few ways this weekend was oddly liberating. To dwell into the untold would be revealing secrets. Would it be not?
Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…
Snapping out.
King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.
The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?
The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.
Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.
Drunken dialing should be outlawed.
Thursday was not all the way through. I had left home, dreading, not considering what lay ahead. I almost turned back, to step into a something unknown, not very friendly, nervous and anxious. I wandered along the harbour, staring at the trains. It’s amazing how irony just jumps out when you least expect it. When you entertain confusion over ambitions or mentally debate a path of the right or wrong in life. It leaps out, knocks you in the head. Peals of laughter or cries of anguish, it is what a professor of mine would call, in her very nasal twang- “ It is an either or situation, no and. It is that easy.”
“No it is not,” I always wished I could say. But I was either trying to ward off sleep or staring at this particular girl’s pretty neck, and visualized- my hand on the slopes of her shoulders. Gently turning her towards me, eyes moist, looking at me enquiringly accompanied by that lingering flashy smile, the lips so inviting…
Snapping out.
King’s circle.
Visions of a decorated, sworn-to-be-protected-by-generations-of-strong-muscular-guards, diamond encrusted sphere made of a mysterious metal, in the depths of which lie the secret of human life, the mission and how to avoid throwing up even after drinking 10 bloody Mary’s and not making a complete ass of yourself in public by peeing in what you think is an isolated corner of the railway station. King’s circle, however contained almost no visions of grandeur, finding grandeur would be as difficult as talking to a socialist in a fiercely capitalist organizations, let us say a magazine with international repute. Hypothetically.
The train hooted on a bridge, looking down at King’s Circle.
A few scattered stalls, selling fish, spices, vegetables and a very well concealed stall, covered by white sheets on almost all sides. The stall had a dealer and what I suspected also the house, he dealt cards and a lonely roulette wheel.
White and Black spinning in its devilish recesses was a dark red ball.
Three men stood opposite the wheel, nursing a glass full of what I would assume a local brew. I suspect some Ether would be an integral part of the process. A burly man stood guard.
The location of the tent was either brand new or the dealer/house was not too bright. The guard warded off all the vagabonds in the markets, but no one considered looking up to analyze. Not the heavens, there was some one else watching and not the flying angles of Zeus, with wings so strong that they melt in the heat. Wrong story? Different conversation?
The train stopped right above this very portable Casino. King’s Circle’s very own Las Vegas. Sin and pleasure took a front seat. Morals and intelligence obviously were too drunk on the back seat.
They spun the wheel, I screamed 13! The men looked up and scrambled to run, but the train left as well.
I tumbled to my destination. A luxurious inn, still recovering from the scars of yesterday.
Often before I reach to what I have to say, is when I run out of breath or lose touch something which also happened this particular day, while I tried to balance myself on a chair after a few too many bloody marys and wines. I even tried to have this conversation with a reasonably attractive woman. I do not remember why I said what I said or even what I said. I remember making the poor female uncomfortable talking to completely drunk man. The evening ended with me trying to charge my phone with my laptop’s battery, not before telling a friend about a certain act of lust I had indulged in a few months ago.
Drunken dialing should be outlawed.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
It's nice to be back home
It has been funny. I have oft tried (in vain, I might add) to salvage a little pride in me from all the faux passes I very unknowingly indulge in. This insignificant situation almost forced me to leap frog from the train to any piece of solid ground (while carefully avoiding what a friend describes as shit cookies) in absolute agony.
First to present a case with all the relevant background.
Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.
Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.
One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.
A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.
“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.
First to present a case with all the relevant background.
Traveling in the second class in one of Mumbai’s most popular trains, during the rush hour is no mean feat. An armpit pushed into your face. Farts. Grinding. If you are lucky, it might be one of the fishing days, when a woman laden with smells (that will cause the olfactory glands to squeal in protest ) will push a saree right in your face. But its funny how that simple shove starts an entertaining conversation which lasts through many words hurled at the men around in Marathi, which would be best kept out of conversation.
She will smile with pride. The hard working community of fishermen. I even encouraged one of these very beautiful people in conversation. The dark eyes looked at me with mistrust.
In a society so erroneously dominated by perverted men, the trust levels usually stay in deep red.
Though her name should be kept secret, she belonged to a family of fishermen, fishing tirelessly, extracting those slimy “macchis” from the sea. A task which woke her up at 4. While her husband fished, she cleaned the house and headed out into the market on her man’s return to sell those very noxious fishes in the market. Those fishes were never my friends. On a plate served with some spices, we then have a different chemistry.
Well Mrs. Fisherwoman here, was heading home to tend to her children. Even though it was not too late in the day. But by fishermen standards, afternoon was upon us. I was on the other hand still fantasizing over a few more minutes of sleep and a thankless job. A melodic death metal band screamed into my ear. The lyrics usually sound a little more immature in the morning. A man, who kills mermaids, is called Mermaider. The elegant mystical sirens would have drowned laughing, but considering they can breathe under water, the entire situation would have been redundant. I drift from my topic.
It was 9.30 am.
One of her children, a girl, named after a very popular yesteryear Indian stunner, who could well have been a very tempting mermaid before she drank her self to death, was heading to school. First day. Mrs Fisherwoman was sending her kid to one of the better ones, she claims. I, however, not an expert on schools, could only nod and smile. The language barrier usually caused the conversations to veer off the track. But madam was doing what mothers have to do on the first day. Take the kids to school, kicking, screaming and tears streaming down their delicate faces, not prepared to let go of the hand which taught them to walk.
After a few minutes of her talking about her precious daughter did I realize how little we find time to look around even during the rush hour, a little peek out of the armpit you are forced to smell would probably even convince him to buy a deodorant. After the waves at Bandra, the embarrassment very painfully surfaced. The mob stared at me as a leper, some even gave me quizzical stares. I was at that point the man who speaks to women without lunging at her chest or gripping her ass. I must be super human or maybe even a prophet, devoid of such emotions.
A man however, nudged me with his elbow and asked me a very simple question.
“Will you talk to my wife? I will pay you.”
Speechless, I stared back. My throat dried up. I have been propositioned a few times before. I usually shake my head and with a nervous laugh often evade these positions by walking away hastily. There was no escape. He stared. I stared back. He even started counting numbers, describing his wife in very colourful terms. It felt like hours before the wheels gently started moving and I shook my head. I looked around for help. Stony stares described me as now an escort. From a prophet to an escort, in a few seconds, the fall from grace was not unnoticed. Then is when his arm snaked around and well… I got groped and then I screamed. I pushed this middle aged man away and got off a station earlier than my expected stop. I got into the next hurtling mob carrier. This crowd was ignorant of my heroic adventures. It felt easier being ignored. I am home again.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Can we smoke here? I promise to be discreet.
Oh how I imagined this week. A fateful sigh left my lips when I first walked in, dreading, intimidated, excited and alone. It was perfect. Almost. A week past and I was anticipating spending these hours trying to sleep off a mammoth amount of beer and screaming over football or maybe even cricket. I had expected it to be a very satisfying end to a very fruitful week. Can we play another hand please? Maybe this time I win it all. Smile contently.
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?
Wishful thinking. A week spent injecting into blood that there are a few unpaid bills which will remain due for a few more months or even years before I can lay my dirty, bloody and soiled hands on the creative satisfaction which is desperately craved. An imagination in vivid colours, brush strokes of excellence, carefully brought out contrasts of images being conceived on a black background along with some anticipation. What was I talking about? Hope? A dream about a roving eye on paid sportsmen and their activities on the field or was it the unpaid politicians and their antics off the field languishing on my other arm while words passed under my fingers or am I looking at it from the wrong end of the bottle?
The city is out of synch. Vibrating on a different frequency, I have desperately strived to achieve the resonance which I felt with this land of heritage when I last bade a teary goodbye. A new being, the traveler, has surfaced. A manic and fanatic emotion to start a run. To look, to wander. But I wonder how a faint hope of that glimmer which I anticipate time and time again will present itself to me, to banish all the clouds (An umbrella?) will steer a very heavy ship to port.
Did I read that somewhere? Is it possible to lose intelligence progressively in a few hours? It feels like a steady process of mental degradation. Oh fiction, why do you desert me so? Unknown reader any bet when it all snaps?
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