– Ground of being: word immersed in the search for joy.
– We owe ourselves more disbelief and disarray if anything is to be substantiated at all.
– Creature comforts and gourmet literature: connecting the oppressor to the oppressed in aesthetic sympathy.
– Plunging into the uncharted depth of words that leads to the abyss that soothes.
– Words can be shaken off their colonial bearings if you will it often enough; plus there is little choice.
– Gravitas to be sought in peals of unexpressed laughter in bonds of a tyrannical softness that yearns to be broken.
– Preach the preachiness of the soft vowel that glows in the dust of unforgiving middlemen that see only the passage of a tiresome journey nervously surmounting this ambitious precipice ahead, missing the inevitable fall.
(Habarana to Trincomalee, Sri Lanka; Aug 6, 2013)
There is only the non-question that begets the non-answer when madness sits down with you for a cup of tea.
There is only non-sense that begets the nonsense when the veil is veiled which is veiled.
Engagement is error; but error is real in the sense of being human.
The real in the sense of being human will engage as the child reaches out and gushes magic awkwardly spilling secrets when the sun can do no harm and night can no longer veil.
How can truth not capture the insecure, beauty not show the incoherent if they are one?
In this place where the norms are a little bit out of whack, where the real is beckoned by silences and where each word is immersed in dark matter nuances occasionally swimming out and whispering the naughts underlying the rock solid figments of our other than day thoughts.
Where the leaf is Buddha, the stem logic, the flower is the overflowing stream, and you catch it all on paper measuring it all in a glass of wine.
Where the crow beckons but only succeeds in making noise.
Where the waves are careful not to wake up the gods who are not listening not in the forest that holds the tree that shows the path to the forest.
Where mothers and sons and daughters and fathers sit around the fire and worship the sun.
Where rightness-es are engendered as consequences of silences which follow words which follow silences.
In the beginning was the silent word.
(Nilaveli, Day 2 by the pool, Sri Lanka; Aug 7, 2013)
– All this confused fire and fury busy laminating the luxurious sheen on things-as-they-are
letting the festering sore impale its gory fingerprints on the shed that overlooks the lantern that lights up the corner in the the nook of that little place you would like to call home.
– The fairy tales have now begun to sprout and deliver their payload. Which monsters would you care to feel breathing down your back? Which nightlamp would you hold to fend off the aura of creepiness that you must slay must slay?
– Clever little footnoes that remind us that this day is but only past another tender one in the making, forged in the fury of iron factoids that provide the glue to nebulous flights of fancy which otherwise you would hold on to as if there were nothing truer.
– So you seek to stir the unshaken or slightly shaken? So you seek to make the blue palatable to the unseen red? Or vice versa? Little does it matter which, for the red will undo the wine that is extracted, and the blue will transcend the sky in that tiny moment where you stand corrected, asserted, expressed.
– How much more maya will the mystic bring as baggage today? The whirling spoof is now a gel that lays on thick on your eyes comforting for a while keeping the light away from the innards of your tentacles that yearn to reach out.
(Havelock bungalow, Colombo, Sri Lanka; August 9, 2013)
– It is not the unimportant wisp that would speak to you in token syllables.
(And all the time you are complaining complaining: wisp is lisping, wisp is lisping.)
We could tell the wisp to shut its trap, but where would that get us really?
The wisp could pretend to not listen to us, adding insult to our injury.
– It is the will in the innermost aspect of the wisp that will murmur keeping the murmur available.
(What murmur, you say, it’s just a buzz, a cacophony of the buzzical kind.)
We could try once more, to shutten its trap, no guarantees on how far we can get.
We have tried before, as you very well know, our expectations sorely not met.
– This this this; morn morn (felt as if this morn is guided by a shine that flits.)
(There you go, you say, it’s lisping again, can someone not make the lisping stop?)
Raucous though the lisping may be, it remains but a harmless wisp.
Cantankerous indeed the wisping might be, ’tis but a lonesome lisp.
This here East which stands in need and wants to give, can give more than it needs. The red burns as it is wont to do. This here East which turns red on its head.
Morning has no answer as it is better equipped to give context to the sky, the birds, the sea, the mountain and the forest. This is the wrong place for answers. And time.
This here now stream of words primes you to reorient your innards in accord with time. And place. Anxious demands drop off as the incessant movement that is preordained is less receptive to the law of preordainment by invoking the higher law of mishmash and vapor. And nonsense. Which steadies the red and breathes fire into it.
Its sharpness dulled, the knife slides back into its sheath.
The higherLaw of m i s h m a s h
and vapor. Steadies day as sure
can let the wishbone decide on what is to be administered by rote and what by eking out genius gliding through corridors of rightnesses and pangs of sweet naughtnesses. Should
the standard be set somewhat
East is in need and it wants to give: this bit gives the upward slant a push. West will appropriate those sweet pangs into full blown howls of pain: this bit corrects the upward slant.
And how to engage, connect with sounds that hold true for the ear which perceives only the craftiness of the din?
Vernacular is its ownmost voice which
doesn’t care much about proper form.
‘Bichhda hua yaar’ needs to be weeded out
of tepid hearts that go from morn to maghrib
whoreshipping their idols. Shall not not do.
So it goes to work, vernacular, it does,
and by the time the ‘ishqiya’ is carped and
voweled out of its three billion one hundred
and one interpretations, the naught asserts itself.
Job well done: the stench will go away soon.
Don’t you worry.
The past – glimpses –
righting the leftward swerve of time,
and as it shifts further right (or left depending on which side of the sun you stand), those snatches film the barrier, and there is little evidence of the present.
You look in this corner of deliverance, but all you get are formalities: pasts, presents and futures linked together by a paltry performance put up by wedding physics to geometry in a hurry (Pythagoras and Newton whisper sweet nothings). The past is no more, and the poetic now gives an adolescent glimpse into the archaic ruins of what is yet to be born.
(Nilaveli, Sri Lanka; August 8 2013)