Lady Lazarus

Welcome to Ithaca by REBECCA SEIFERLE

2007-10-24T00:18:00.000-07:00

Since metaphor derives from transferring
a burden from one to the other, it
was clear, then, from the beginning,
that blood-drenched hall, that it would be easier
to silence pleas for mercy
if heard as the unintelligible
chirping of birds -- easier
to string servant girls up like pigeons.
So, Odysseus's heart was a dog, it's hackles
rising when he saw the women caught up
in the suitors' arms, someone else's pets,
and only in a dream did Penelope weep
for her slaughtered geese, their soft white strewn
round the water trough. When Telemachus strung
a wire between two tress and began hanging
the servant woman, one by one, noosing
them in a line, the dying women
were described as thrushes spreading their wings,
doves or larks caught in a spring.
They were killed as a flock of birds, as undeserving
of the death of a single human being.
Though, first, in a colder, waking moment, the undisguised
Odysseus ordered the women to remove the corpses
from the great hall, to stack their lovers
in the yard. One cradling each beloved head,
another clutching at the feet,
the women became mere things --
their flesh a rag for scouring the furniture,
trying to scrub clear the appalling
table. Their last task
before being strangled -- to dispose
of the earth itself, theblood-soaked floor
that Telemachus meticulously cut out,
so in the future -- that narrow corridor
down which so many would be driven -- a visitor
would not know she was invited into
a charnel house.

2007-02-24T00:02:00.000-08:00

This is my last post.

Ei prithibitey aami shudhu otithhi.
Onichhuk otithhi.
Aamar shikor chhirey aamakey
Ekhaney aana hoyechhe.
Ei manusher mon aami
bujhi na.
Na tader bhabna
Na tader kirthi

Haway bhashi

Uthi

Nabi

Manthhar gothithey

Choli

Phiri

Ei moner jongoley pathh hariye
Dom bondhho hoye jae.
Otithi thheke bondhhi korechhe
Aamay.
Shomudrer dhar ta onek dur.
Moner khachay
Dana chhotpot korey.

Haway bhashi

Uthi

Nabi

Tene dhorey

Dana chhireday

......

Goodbye.

2007-02-15T02:34:00.000-08:00

I suggest you click on the picture and view it full size. Does more justice to it.

2007-02-07T01:25:00.000-08:00

Music played.
I swam through the thick yellow glow
Of light towards you.
I took your hand in mine.
And we danced.

Rose petals

On your ear.

Shiny blue tinkling sounds

as I try to scratch my way out.

Breathing heavily.

Time stops.

And we danced
through the night, against a stormy sky.
The light in the room
Swirled around me.
Thick as honey.

Paper-thin leaves
Come fluttering down.
Smashed to pieces, trickling green
reptilian and unblinking
Paroxym
of hate.

Thick as honey
Fine as silk: your hair curves down
your shoulder, onto mine.
Knots itself around my neck.
Medusa laughs.

2007-02-07T01:09:00.000-08:00

The cracked mirror hangs.
Dejected and broken. A
picture of misery.

2007-02-07T01:06:00.000-08:00

A grey stretch of road
And on it's edge a cactus:
Crowned with a blossom.

2007-02-02T23:36:00.000-08:00

And then the stranger turned around
And looked into my eyes and frowned
And tried his best not to be drowned
In brown and limpid eyes.

For who wants to be led astray?
Not him! And so he turned away.
His thoughts were all in disarray.
It came as no surprise.

But then I wasn't taking
Things so passively. For breaking
People's hearts in every waking
Hour, is what I truly like.

So with my eyelids fluttering,
I watched as he stood stuttering
And spluttering and muttering,
And prepared to strike.

And while the poor thing was quite shrinking
Right into the ground and thinking
He was done for, I was drinking
To my imminent success.

But then he defacated
There in fear of being castrated
And that really complicated
Things for me. For such a mess

Is really more than I can take.
To soil my clothes and self would break
My heart like nothing else. That flake
Was going to get away.

2007-01-20T00:49:00.000-08:00

By the time it was over, I realized I had dirt under my fingernails. (Which I found strange, though I shouldn't have). I got to my feet and began brushing off particles of earth from my robe. The hem of my garment seemed to be caught on something. I tugged, but nothing came of it. So I turned. And found him lying prostrate on the ground, clutching my robe with his filthy hands. I looked at him for a moment. Then I said:

"Let go."

But he only gazed up at me, his eyes colourless and unblinking.

I pulled a little harder, not afraid that my robe would tear. It was thick and course, though not exactly rough, and the colour of the night sky. His mouth curved faintly upwards, towards his ears, amused at my efforts. And then he had sprung to his feet and had me by my belt. His fetid breath on my face and neck, his hirsuteness grazing my arms. I struggled, while he shook in silent laughter.

"It's over!" I said desperately, as I struck him with my fists. "There isn't any more to it!"

He laughed, and tightened his grip on me. And then we were in the air, whisked toward the east, as I looked helplessly on. My hood was blown off and whipped against my ear, the skirt of my robe floundering in the wind. I kicked out, bit his shoulder, struck him on the chest again and again. He only laughed. I pulled his hair, dug my nails into his face.

................when I awoke, it was dusk. The sky was a mottled grey, the earth below me warm and damp. My body felt numb and my senses addled. And all I was aware of, was a sense of oppressiveness, and a faint twitching in the flesh between my legs.

2007-01-07T00:11:00.001-08:00

You take a buck
You give a fuck
And don't care bleeding how.
One cannot say
Just whom you'll lay
You want your quickie now.

2007-01-03T02:54:00.000-08:00

You sit and dream insipid dreams
And think insipid thoughts,
And while the child inside you screams
Your mind slips into knots.

And when you try to contemplate
Or get your brain to work,
Or try to write something ornate,
You find, you little jerk,

You cannot write, you cannot think,
Or count your ugly toes,
You cannot talk or even stink,
But dig your pimply nose.

You scratch the dandruff in your hair
But miss the crawling lice,
You can do little else, but dare
Give insipid advice.

The simplest task makes you feel faint
And your inert brain reel.
You have forgotten how to paint
The things you think and feel

In words and phrases, metaphors,
Riddles and similes.
Ideas refuse to appear.
You cannot rhyme with ease.

In your frustration you lash out
At unpresuming friends.
But then, it hurts to have a stout
Danda up your rear end.

2006-12-30T22:52:00.000-08:00

A mellow winter’s afternoon.
I sit and write. It’s been a year.
And I wonder and contemplate
The things with which it has been strewn.
And though to few things may appear
Changed, I refuse to altercate

Or waste my time on trivialities.
Through egg-yolk suns and fleshy-nosed
Sluts, I find myself quite tired
And stagnant. And those fantasies
And visions have not, as supposed,
Turned insipid, but acquired

Dimensions I had not looked for.
At times we feel like a pair of
Drunks pitched around a heaving ship.
Étrange? And yet we reach for more,
Like fools. My thoughts are siphoned off
By her. She feels no qualms to nip

My ideas, still in the bud.
I ramble, rave and make no sense.
My faculties are sadly curbed.
A mighty conduit of blood
Advanced on me. Is this pretense
And just a show? Or a disturbed,

Uncanny apparition here?
Snakes and turtles come and go.
And scorpions. Don’t forget the
Scorpions! D’you hear? Is that clear?
The decibels sway to and fro
Within my brain. I cannot stir

From where I lie. And then a hand
Pushes and forces open my
Door. The sun has set. It is no
Longer an afternoon. A bland
Evening has set in. A pinched, dry
Moon. And a blind sky. Black as crow.

2006-12-28T08:20:00.000-08:00

He taunts and mocks,
Despises me.
He aims a care-
ful simile
To try and stump
And leave me dry.
Then smiles his smile;
Sarcastic, wry.

And then one day
I threw a collar round the snake’s head
And tightened it.
I sat astride him
And rode him through the desert.
Cold and smooth.
Sleek and precise.

His words are like
A million thorns
That pierce my flesh
And then adorn
With sinuous trails
Of scarlet. I
Throw back my head
And laugh and cry.

And after we
Had traveled a considerable distance,
We came upon the
Erection on the sand.
I dismounted and stood
Before it. Struck dumb
In awe and humility.

For I seem to
Be losing fast
Myself into
Memories past
And days long gone
That cannot be
Ever brought back
In purity.

2006-12-01T01:41:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time in space, Little Bala drew a face
And put it on and walked about, quite certain that no one would doubt
The fact that it was not a mask. He thought no one would ever ask,
Or suspect or realize, that though he looked so staid and wise,

Emotions heaved around inside. His hurt and grief, though amplified,
He quite successfully supressed, and horsed around and spoke in jest.
And thus went by his days and years, he'd thought he'd rid himself of fears
Unnatural. And insecure, he thought no one could ever lure

Him out again. And then one day, The mask, it cracked, and fell away.
Alas! Alack! What could he do? Did he stand there? Stutter and spew?
And look around him fearfully? How shall I end this parody?
Shall I leave you with the truth? Or shall I allow the Tooth

Of imagination to sink into you and make you think?
What do you think was the plight of Little Bala: did he fight
Or did he give in and succumb? Or withdraw and turn himself numb?
The pool is calm, the pool is still. Stand at the edge. Think if you will.

2006-11-29T03:04:00.000-08:00

Run and hide. Run and hide.
You're just a lonely and deprived
Little git. And did you think
You would ever fit past that chink
In your tall and granite wall?
You never should have looked at all
Upon the world outside, when you
Really had no intentions to
Venture out. So now you see,
The perks of Curiosity.
You had to look and contemplate
And realize you could checkmate
The lot. But failed to consider
Games other than played in metaphor.
Well, serves you right. You had to be
So cold and proud. Your Vanity
And thoughtlessness and disregard
Is why Icarus fell so hard.

2006-11-25T00:04:00.000-08:00

I was asked this, well.......profound question: "Do you think you are psycho?"

The first flaw in this question struck me as being the word "psycho". The second one was: "Do you think".

My instinctive reaction would be,"Define "psycho", and "No, I don't think." And therein lies our problem.

Now, supposing I ask for the definition of "psycho". Have I been thinking? If I do not think, would I ask for the definition of "psycho"? If I say that I do not think, am I necessarily denying that I have the ability to think, or am I just refusing to? If I do think, would it be my definition or someone else's? And if it were someone else's, why should I bother thinking about it at all? Of what great consequence is it to me, what another person feels "psycho" should be defined as?

Fine. Let us consider the possibility that I do think. And I ask for the definition of the word "psycho".

What is a Psychopath? Or rather, who is he? Is he someone who:
i. loves himself
ii. is aware of his worth
iii. credits himself for what he is worth
iv. indulges only in those activities from which he derives pleasure
v. indulges himself all the time
vi. believes that his personal indulgences come before anything or anyone else (these indulgences could be anything)
vii. thinks
viii. reads
ix. is an artist (in the truest sense of the word. That is, his Art, be it writing, photography, cooking, thinking, hedonism, ANYTHING - is his priority)
x. does not bank on externals

Well, if these characteristics are, according to certain persons, those of a psychopath, (not necessarily the only characteristics), they might be to others, those of the anti-social-hedonist (again, not necessarily the only characteristics of the anti-social-hedonist). So, am I a psychopath, or an anti-social-hedonist?

Allow me to encroach on foreign territory (i.e. math), to illustrate my point.

Let us construct a Venn-diagram:

Circle "P" represents the characteristics of the Psychopath, and circle "A", those of the anti-social-hedonist. The shaded area consists of those that are common to both psychopaths and anti-social-hedonists.

So what would you call someone who falls in the shaded area? A psychotic-anti-social-hedonist?

Well, that seems to be the basic flaw in the question. There are others. For instance, by asking that question, the speaker implies that a psychopath falls under a clear cut boundary.

Moreover, "psycho", is a relative term.

And finally, I cannot measure myself according to another's yardstick. And if that makes me un-psycho, well, then that is what I am. According to that person.

Because, according to me, no psychopath rates him/herself by another's standards, values or principles.

2006-11-22T03:09:00.000-08:00

I have been accused of being unhappy.

There has been a psychopath living right under my nose. And in all the while I have known her, I have only discovered of late, that she has been one all along. Which probably corroborates the fact even more. Because a true psychopath would not, or rather, NEED not, propagandize him/herself. They need not go around proclaiming "I AM PSYCHO" .

Well, as I said, it has only just recently dawned on me, that this person is, well, one of "us"(?) I knew that she was unique and brilliant and that there was more to her than met the eye. But I have been surprised and delighted to discover that she is actually PSYCHO. Better still, she fits my standard of 'psycho'. And even better, is that she fits her own standard of 'psycho'. She has not told me this, and I do not know exactly what her definition of 'psycho' would be, but I do know that she is aware that she is psycho. Even if she will not openly admit it. She unmistakably is.

I do not know what her standards of being psychotic are, because there is a lot to her that I have no inkling about. A true psychopath is never obvious or predictable. A true psychopath is never entirely revealed.

When I first became aquainted with her, I did not speak to her much. I did find her rather intriguing. And I did like her. And as I got to know her better, spent more time speaking to her, and listening to her, I discovered gradually, that she was undoubtedly a psychopath. One aspiring mathematician once said (about geniuses), "They seem to be crawling out of the woodwork". Well, I cannot say I agree. I'd say, they are the woodwork, whose worth, not any layman can determine. And everything that crawls out of this woodwork, is every (dark?) thing you discover about it.

Earlier on, I thought I had come upon a fellow psychopath. I regret to say I was mistaken. Well, this time, unless I am very stupid (which I am not), I can hardly be mistaken. You see, she thinks too much.
She also reads too much. Knows too many things. Is too talented. Wears too inscrutable an expression. And talks too intelligently. To be non-psycho.

She is also very beautiful. This, she will not admit. I do not know why. Perhaps it is inconsequential to her? Or perhaps, her definition does not agree? Or, (and this is rather disappointing, because by doing this she is letting herself down. And that is something no psychopath does), she does not believe that she is? She refuses to believe me when I tell her that she is beautiful. Well, I suppose psychopaths do not believe anyone but themselves......

Doesn't that prove, once more, that she is psycho?

She is an extremely soft-spoken person. And gentle and mild. (But I suppose one can attribute that to her current policy of non-violence). But passionate about the things she loves. I have known her to have cried on a couple of occasions. I am sure she has otherwise too, but not in my presence. It saddens me to know that she is, or can be, unhappy. Because, as that same aspiring mathematician also said, some people really do not deserve to be unhappy.
She is one such person.

You know, I do not know anyone who plays deadlier mind games than she does. She plays her own. And beats me at mine. Well...not always.

Hmmm....Thief of Thoughts, as someone so aptly put it.....

She understands. She guages, She sees.

She intrigues.

Even if I were unhappy, there are things that overshadow that which are worth not even the dirt under my fingernails.

2006-11-17T22:40:00.000-08:00

2006-11-17T22:39:00.000-08:00

2006-11-17T22:27:00.000-08:00

2006-11-07T02:22:00.000-08:00

It is one 'o' clock. And pitch dark outside. The rain has been falling in an endless monotone for days now. I pull a threadbare sheet over myself, but am still cold. I cannot sleep. I turn and look at my partner. She's cold too. Very, very cold. But her eyes are shut. And her body still. She does not shiver as I do. The incessant sound of raindrops do not awaken her. The sound of her breathing does not rasp as mine does. Her chest does not hurt with every breath she takes. But then again, she is not taking any breaths. She is not breathing at all. Her pulse is not racing as abnormally fast as mine is. Her fingers aren't numb. She does not feel the cold needling her feet. She, is calm, quiet, and lifeless.
Some people have all the luck.

2006-11-04T23:28:00.000-08:00

From where I stand, the moon looks like a smooth, white pebble. I hold up my hand, blocking it from view. But it shines through my fingers, and my hand looks a silvery white. And rather ghostly. The moon does strange things. And not just to my hand. A mist envelopes me like a curtain of silver gauze. And down below, the river tongues its way across the valley, glistening and white.

I settle down upon the wet grass. I have a long time to wait. And think. Tonight, my thoughts are not woven into each other. Tonight, my mind is clear, my feelings cold. So are my feet. In fact, they are numb. Tonight, my breathing does not feel restricted. My chest does not hurt so much. Tonight is different. It is a strange night.

Tonight, is silver.

But wait. I see a glimmer of pink. Emerging from the dancing, black trees. Creeping insidiously from out of their heads. And tarnishing the granite sky. And as I watch, it rises out of the forest, advancing upon the moon: it pushes forwards, it spreads.

A shudder runs through me. A spectral hand brushing against my soul.

The cloud slides neatly over the moon. And everything turns black.

2006-11-03T01:08:00.000-08:00

Today I awoke at the crack of dawn
My body aching.
I left the warmth of the bed
To stand at the window.
It was lovely outside.
I turned and looked at you,
Beautiful in your nakedness.
Smooth. Soft. Sensual.
Your mouth turned up in unconscious petulance.
One cheek resting on the pillow.
I longed to nestle beside you
Once more.
Instead, I walked across the
Greyish half-light of the room.
I picked up my robe and put it on.
Nakedness is associated with
Vulnerability.
But you, your nakedness was your strength.
One of your many strengths.
So I tied the last knot
And picked up the knife.
And without a qualm I drove it into your heart.
The heart that beat next to mine
Last night.
That beat with mine.

I cut an apple for you
With that knife last night.
Do you recall?
It was unripe.
A trifle sour.
But to my liking.
I've always had a weakness for green apples

2006-11-01T01:29:00.000-08:00

The pool is calm, the pool is still.
Stand at the edge, and if you will,
Look into it. And if you dare,
Try and hold your gaze right there.
And if you can't, don't worry. You
Can act as other people do.
Just pause, and smile a bit. And then,
Nod once or twice, and do as men
Have done before you.
Walk away.

2006-06-07T09:40:00.000-07:00

Sit and cry
Sit and cry
I say a prayer
As I watch you die.
Pine and sigh
Pine and sigh
Is all you did,
You lived a lie.
Sit and think
Sit and think?
All you can do
Is nod and blink.
You cannot rhyme
You cannot rhyme
You cannot keep
The perfect time
You always kept
You always kept
The genius
Is now inept.

No sound advice
No sound advice
Can ever hope
To exorcise
Me from this
Vegetable state.
I can’t compose
I can’t create.
A potato,
An onion green,
Is what I am.
I could have been
And done better
If I’d only
Listened to her.
And said a prayer,
Confessed my sins.
Think I risked my
Intelligence.

2006-06-01T23:23:00.000-07:00

My head, it hurts, my eyes are red.
But I am not ready for bed.
All I can do is pace and brood
And seek some sort of interlude.

My withered, gnarled and stony heart's
Begun to beat in fits and starts,
And I really cannot explain
This jealousy I feel, this pain

That gnaws, pierces and troubles me.
For emotions, never, you see,
Have I felt in my heart before.
The most I've ever felt, is sore.

So help me now, my brothers all.
I should not ask for help at all
Of course. But say, what do I do?
This state is relatively new.

LadyLazarus

2006-05-30T22:27:00.000-07:00

This, if you will, call it an ode,
Or just a piece composed to goad
An asshole on to write some verse
Or prose. Or simply rave and curse.
To resurrect his sleeping mind,
Now febrile, weak, and (to be kind),
All mottled and addled with drugs.
Where are they, with their ugly mugs?
Those geeks and nerds and physicists?
And Brown University’s hits?
What, could they not kindle your brain?
They could not, or they would not deign?
Loftier pursuits, have they not?
So now, my dear, what have we got?
A darling, blinking idiot.
One window open, one tight shut.

I’m tired and I’m weak and worn.
Hold my hand and lead me on,
Help me stand lest I should fall.
Prop my aching back against the wall.
I cannot write, I cannot rhyme.
I’m losing this race against time.
That brazen harlot, where is she?
Why couldn’t she just let me be?
It’s all her fault, oh yes it is!
She taunts and teases, tries to piss
My poor creaking, inert brain off.
Just wait till I bring back Paupoff.

LadyLazarus

2006-05-23T09:54:00.000-07:00

Aspanu, Aspanu, my beloved
Aspanu my brother
And I thought you loved me.
Roland and Oliver were we.
But not Damon and Pythias.
You did not let it be.
You could not let it be.
You would not.
Aspanu my brother.

Yet I love you still.
I love you

2006-05-17T23:52:00.001-07:00

And wash your face and comb your hair.
Go on, unless you want the stares
To start again. And dry your eyes
You snivelling skunk. I sympathize,
Of course I do. How could I not?
But stop and think. Have you forgot
That brazen harlot and that girl
You met, whose hair was all a-twirl.
That extrovert, that pied-ninny.
And ere you could cry 'Giminny'!
They had you bound from head to foot.
And I am sure they would have put
You in the well. Joseph's brothers
Were far better. Your soul shudders
Still, does it not? In bleeding shame?
But since YOU chose to play this game,
You'll have to play it to the end.
You can't back out now, my dear friend.
Didn't they warn you? Those nerds and geeks?
Those music lovers and those freeks
Who live on logic, permut comb,
And truly derive their strength from
Calculus and his blinking friends?
Well, go on, try to make amends.
Just try. You'll have to wash your face
And comb your hair and tie your lace
Before you can. And then you'll see,
You're just plain Mediocrity.

2006-03-16T08:49:00.000-08:00

Yahweh.
I call upon Yahweh.
Or do I?
I don’t.
I can’t.
Am I too weak?

Oh Yahweh.
Help me.
Shaitani, wehbaki numami
Na indu na
Yesu.
It’s no use.
No use.

The pool was cool and smooth and green
And with a stone I broke its sheen.
Sent ripples scurrying like guilty men.
I hate it all. I hate this glen,
This bower unravaged, Sacred, still.
I hate this silence, calm. I will
With my bare hands destroy it all.
The pool? My bloody foot. Will crawl
With creatures slimy, stinking, foul.
The bower? Lizards and beasts will prowl
At will in it. T’will be the end.
The end. THE END. No one can mend
What I have done. You simpering fools,
A fine dance were you led. Go drool
Elsewhere now.
The show is over.

2006-03-07T22:17:00.000-08:00

Sharp, hot, stinging.
Breath.
Breath.
Warm and saline.
Uninterrupted for a while.
Gasp.
Pause.
Hot, searing pain.
Rage, hatred, a wave of blinding anger.
Convulsed.
Stab. Stab. Stab.
Suffocating flood.

Pause.
Blink.

Sit up.
Wipe them away.
And move
on.

2006-02-08T01:53:00.000-08:00

(ii)

We drove on in silence for a while. Miles of barren countryside rolled past us. Yellow and brown were the two dominant colours. The rest was a monochromatic game played by Nature. It was really very beautiful.

For a long time nobody spoke. The silence inside the car seemed to echo round the countryside which threw it back at us. Beside me, Zillah sat straight in her seat, her eyes fixed on the road. I knew she was thinking about me. And it made me angry. I hate it when people get all concerned. Like I can’t take care of myself. I yanked the glove compartment open. A couple of compact discs fell out. A Saucerful of Secrets and Division Bell. No one was in the mood for music. I flung the discs back in and slammed the door shut. It made everyone jump. Behind me, Ahiah snickered. I wished I had a gooey banana flan to slam into his face.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and leaned back. I could feel Ahiah’s hard shoes pressed against the lower part of my seat, but tried to ignore it.

“Where are we stopping next?” asked Pashhur.

“I don’t know,” I heard Zillah reply. They paused. For me, I guessed.
I did not turn around.

“There should be an inn somewhere on this road.” Zillah said after a while.

“How far?” asked Pashhur.

“Twelve miles, I think.”

Ahiah snorted.

“You didn’t have to come, you know, Ahiah?” Pashhur said.

“I wanted to, and I have.”

“Well, there’s no need to display how weak you are,” I snapped. “Demoralized already.”

“Aaaah. So madam deigns to address me, does she?”

“Okay, Ahiah,” Pashhur said, “Tell me, what’s sixteen times sixteen?”

“Two hundred and fifty six. Hah, I had that memorized.”

Zillah snorted this time.

I turned away wearily and looked out of the window. I could hear Pashhur saying,
“Okay, now solve this. If a bottle of wine costs $10 and the wine itself is worth $9 more than the bottle it comes in, what is the bottle itself worth…….”
My head was beginning to ache. I rested on the glass pane. The boys had also rolled up their windows. Only Zillah had left hers open. She did not mind the dust so much. I sighed. We had been on the road for three days now. I tried to picture the house we had just left. It had looked so beautifully grey. I had not wanted to leave it and move on…….

I sat up. What was that which I had noticed at the foot of the steps leading up to the house? It had been just a subconscious observation then. And now as it rose to my consciousness with a nagging sense of fear, I turned to Zillah.
“Stop the car!” I tried to keep my voice level. “Stop the car. How far have we come?”

“Just three miles,” she answered, unperturbed. Had she been expecting this? Sometimes she knew me more than I did. And too well for my own comfort.

“Okay, turn around. I want to go back to that house.”

Zillah shrugged. And turned the car around.

2006-02-07T06:46:00.000-08:00

The house was a large one. It had a shingle roof. Some of the shingles were missing. As I stepped a little closer, I noticed that the door was slightly ajar. I stood for a moment wondering what to do.

The front porch seemed to have been left upswept for a long time. One of the two dusty wicker chairs had been pushed over and was lying on its side. I turned and walked back to the car. I got into the front seat and sat for a few minutes without speaking.
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Zillah looking at me with her eyebrows raised. Her fingers gripped the wheel in tense expectation, waiting for me to speak. I sat looking ahead at the dusty road that stretched out before us.
“Well?” said Pashhur after a while. I did not answer him.
“Man, why is she so weird?” Ahiah said suddenly from the backseat, where he sat with Pashhur. I turned in my seat and narrowed my eyes at him. He slumped back and returned my look with an insolent one, chewing his horrible banana-flavoured gum all the while.
“Do you have to piss people off at the wrong time?” Pashhur said to him.
“Hey, come on, I was the only one who was able to get some reaction out of her,” Ahiah exclaimed. “She just kept sitting there like some stone image.” I hated Ahiah’s Americanized way of talking. I resumed my position and looked out of the window. The greying wood of the house seemed to beckon to me. The shingles seemed to reproach me for getting back into the car. I tore my eyes away from the house. And found Zillah still studying me. She was the only one who had not said anything.

I turned and looked out at the road again.
“I think we should move on,” I said. I could still feel Zillah’s gaze on me.
“Are you sure?” she said at last. I nodded. She let out a long breath.“Okay then,” she said. And started the car.

2006-01-29T06:30:00.000-08:00

The day was very cold and very still. The sky overhead was a dull heavy grey. It seemed to impart a greyish tinge to everything beneath it.

Holding the trowel with both hands, she dug into the soft, damp earth. She kept digging till she had made a fairly deep cavity. Then she rose and ran back up the steps and into the kitchen. A minute later she emerged. Then squatting again, she arranged her tools neatly beside the hole.

Amidst the stillness a leaf fluttered.

She picked up the scissors. They were a long, narrow pair, with sharp gleaming points.

Beside the hollow in the earth a circle had been marked out on the green with ash.

She gazed for a moment at the lowering sky, then turned away, thoughtful, satisfied.

2006-01-28T20:08:00.000-08:00

2006-01-28T02:42:00.000-08:00

Here you are, Ishtaar, a poem with a title.

Galadriel’s Mirror

The pool was cool and smooth and green;
The surface still, and without sheen.
I stood and tried to gauge its depth
But failed. Without a thought I swept
Aside (methought) fruitless musings
And turned away. For other things
Awaited my attention. I
Had lengths to cover, heights to fly
To, and could not spare measured time
On trivialities. A crime,
I knew it was, to sit idle.
And so I tightened my girdle,
Donned helmet, breastplate and sandals,
Armed with shield and sword to handle
Obstacles to come in my way.
So I set off. And then one day
I came upon a slender youth,
Gentle, refined, and not uncouth.
Aesthetically pure. And glad
Was I to make a pact. A mad
And monstrous mind happened to be
What next I met. It was, you see,
Intriguing, yet a menace to
Society. I had no clue
If I should befriend it. I did
Try to study it. But fetid
Odours soon put me off. So on
I traversed till I came upon
The lair of a Gorgon whom I,
With ease could look straight in the eye
Without being turned to stone. And all
At once time had come to a stall,
And there suddenly were the youth
And the mind in that cave. In truth
I knew not how they happened there,
How they arrived, nor whence, nor where.
And in a trice therein arose
A storm so mighty that it froze
The blood of all the gods in heaven
And that of demons in their dens.
(For gods are made of flesh and blood,
Though demons perhaps, are of mud.)
As for the storm, it ravaged all,
The mightiest it did appall
And render trembling to their knees,
And wond’ring how they could appease.
Power I had to calm the storm,
But found I had no will to. From
It all myself instead withdrew
And sought for something else to do.
Then I found myself by that pool
That seemed to tell me what a fool
I had made of myself. It seemed
To mock my actions in its green.
I stood and tried to gauge its depth
But failed. And thus knew not what slept
With veiled intentions underneath,
With slow, rhythmic, staid heartbeat.

2006-01-24T01:18:00.000-08:00

His eyes were like, boiled gooseberries. And they had this permanent, vacuous expression in them. He was looking at me, but I wasn’t sure if he was listening to what I was saying. I paused and waited. Slowly, almost deliberately, he put his cup down, careful no to clatter it on the saucer. And then he smiled. I shuddered as I caught sight of something stringy wedged between his incisors. I dropped my eyes and began tracing designs on the tablecloth, trying to shut out the picture of his teeth.
After a while I looked up. He was still smiling that yellow smile. Trying not to scream, I got up. His smile wavered and hung for a moment between disconcertedness and uncertainty.
“Where are you going?” he asked, spraying saliva as he spoke. I shut my eyes and clutched the edge of the table for support. And as if that weren’t enough, I had just caught sight of the smear of dried egg-yolk on his tie. Letting out a breath very slowly, I said,
“I’m going out for some fresh air.” And added hurriedly as he made to get up, “You stay right on and finish your tea. Don’t let me interrupt you.” And smiling with all the effort I could muster, hurried out of the shop.
Outside was a grey afternoon. The kind I loved. Breathing naturally at last, I smiled at the sky. It was cloudy, but not about to rain. The sun was trying hard to shine through, but only succeeded in looking like the yolk of a hardboiled egg. And that did it. It brought to mind the disgusting little crusty bit of egg-yolk stuck to his tie. Unbelievable, a morsel of your breakfast still stuck to you at teatime.

2006-01-22T03:57:00.000-08:00

Today, Lady Lazarus got really, really pissed off.

You see, it was like this. We were alone at home since morning, and glad to have a bit of solitude. We always welcome being left alone. Well, I decided to wash some of my clothes (with Lady Lazarus supervising, of course). We were almost done, when our Mother returned home. She looked into the machine and said, “What are you washing?” And I said, “Just some of my clothes. Don’t add any of yours”. But when I drained out the washing machine, I found that our beloved mother had bung her filthy socks in with our clothes, despite the fact that I had asked her not to. And that really pissed Lady Lazarus off. I mean, yes, I was upset too. But Lady Lazarus, she was really, really upset. She flung the socks out, and refused to put them into the dryer. Well, Lady Lazarus finished doing the clothes. She refused to let me do even those. She was that upset. Later on I thought, “Oh well, let’s just put those socks in the dryer”. And I did them anyway.

2006-01-21T04:08:00.000-08:00

You see, the Imp knows a lot of things. She understands and perceives. These are not mere conclusions she has jumped to. She has watched, observed and studied things, and what she perceives is true. You see, the Imp is rather observant. The result of being left out of conversations and remaining un-noticed. And she has stored all the things she has seen and heard in her heart, in her child-like mind. The Imp does not forget easily.

But what does the Imp do with the knowledge that she has? Who does she tell? Her brother is too busy getting horny about his girlfriend. Her bestfriend is too busy indulging her horny boyfriend. Besides, they wouldn't believe her. They'd tell her that she was jumping to conclusions, imagining things. The Imp has no one to turn to.

What does the Imp do when she has no one to turn to? Nothing really. What is there to do? She withdraws. Remains aloof. But everyone else around her is so sensitive that there isn't room for her to be sensitive. To have moods.

Besides, she isn't a lady. She isn't pretty, she isn't dainty, she isn't elegant or graceful, she isn't charming. And she certainly isn't a princess.
And because she isn't all these, she isn't thought to be sensitive either. Nor to have feelings. Besides, the Psycho Guy loves reminding her how ugly she is. He loves rubbing it in. Sometimes she thinks he does that to remind her to not expect to be treated with the chivalry that the Princess is treated with. But he really needn't worry. Because you see, the Imp doesn't really expect that. She's too used to being looked upon otherwise.

But the Imp brushes that aside. Because what takes greater precedence is her being sensitive to the feelings of those around her. Especially her brother, whom she loves with her life. And her bestfriend.

She wants to tell them that she is always here for them, always ready to listen, to give support. She so badly wants them to know how much she cares about them, how much she loves them, how her own heart breaks when they are unhappy. But they're too busy seeking love and support elsewhere.

They don't really want the Imp. She's inconsequential. She's Nobody. You see, she just the Imp.

2006-01-20T23:02:00.000-08:00

“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested to know.”
“You lied to me.”
“No, it’s more like you didn’t believe me.”
“You did lie to me.”
“No, you just didn’t trust me. I was telling you the truth. You refused to believe that I was telling you the truth. Shows, doesn’t it, how much you trust me.”
“You should have told me at the very beginning.”
“I wanted to, but you had so much on your mind already.”
“NO! You should have told me anyway.”
“I didn’t want to force myself and my stupid problems on you.”
“You’re talking rubbish.”
“I’m not. Don’t you see, you didn’t have time for me right then. I still don’t think you do.”
“That’s not true!”
“I didn’t want to bother you when you were so preoccupied anyway.”
“I’m pissed off now.”
“You were the first person I wanted to tell. Don’t you realize, it was killing me inside. I was going nuts. I had to tell someone. And you were the one I wanted to tell. But you weren’t there. You would have listened, I’m sure, but not heard. You don’t know how much I needed to talk to you about it. You don’t know how much I wanted to tell you. Don’t you realize, you’re the first person I always talk to. Whether I can talk to anyone else or not, I make it a point to talk to you. Not because I think I should. But because I WANT to. It makes my day to hear your voice. And you? You’re so busy talking to others that when I call, you find that you’ve overstepped your limit, and you have no time set aside to talk to me. When you do something like that, do you think I’d feel that you want to talk to me? To want to listen to my problems, fears, doubts? I really began to think you wouldn’t be interested, that you wouldn’t care anyway. I’d never have said this to you, but since you started this thing, tell me, where would you be right now, if I hadn’t introduced you to the Princess?”

LadyLazarus

2006-01-20T00:11:00.000-08:00

Now this, ladies and gentlemen, is true, unadulterated talent. One wonders why it is given to morons who think stuff like
"And as his tears ran down his cheeks
His mandolin he played." is coooooooooool. (Madu)

"An overdose of metaphor
With lots of blood and lots of gore
With lots of angst and lots of pain,
the venom of my schizoid brain"

and,

"a cute little Pink Floyd cottage, with cute little Roger Waters windows and some smooth David Gilmour curtains and a dark black Syd Barret door). Ha Ha HA HA ha."

and,

"If I had a gun, I think
I'm sure I'd be driven to the brink
Of sanity, and there I'd stand
With that weapon in my hand.

I'd shoot down spiders, shoot down bees,
The cute little birdies in the trees
The rabbits which run and hide, I'd say
It's time to blow their brains away.

And little girls who write too much
'Bout pain and grief, I'd have such
A blast! I'd pump them full of lead
I'd shoot them through their pompous head.

And psycho guys who always snap!
And write pathetic, morbid crap
I'd rid the world of all such scum
And blow them all to kingdom come.

Gun down the sun 'cos it's too bright,
Gun down the moon and stars at night
But this is true, beyond refute
Mordiah's the first one I would shoot. "

I've taken the liberty to post these (and I have no intentions of apologizing), because the original author wouldn't think of posting them. Yes , he's that stupid and dumb and moronic.

2006-01-18T00:00:00.000-08:00

Part II

The darling boy, yes, he’s quite loony.
That makes him all the more attractive,
Don’t you see?
No, I don’t go for looks, you know.
Talent is what fascinates me.
I’ve always said so.
You know, quoting the Masters: Blake,
Coleridge, maybe a philosopher or two.
Enough to make
Everyone else feel they’re inadequately read.
The common masses, pooh! They’re
Made of lead.
As thick and impenetrable. Don’t
Expect them to perceive the finer things in life.
Well I won’t
Waste my breathe on them. Now about this boy,
Yes, he’s unique. Just like us. Mediocrity
Annoys
Him. He’s psychotic to the correct degree,
Has suffered just enough traumas
And is quite free
Talking Art and Literature. In fact,
He’s turning out quite well. He’ll qualify,
Of that
I am sure. He has the poem of
The century memorized, and I am glad to say,
Will readily scoff
At bestsellers and read all the obscure
Russian authors he can find. He’s one of
Those demure
Boys, looks down on all frivolous acts,
Shuns society, breaks rules , is blatantly rude
And avoids tact.
Yes, our association will accept him with open arms.
He’s characteristically unique.
He charms
To the correct degree and is tastefully
Revolting. His level of depression is acceptable.
Truly,
He’s as perfectly unperfect as we could
Ever hope for. He just needs a cape and
A hood,
(adds character, you know), to highlight
That touch of vampireness, which is
Just right
And does not exceed the given limit.
See, his symptoms are punctilious in every way. I’ve no
Doubt he’ll fit.

2006-01-17T01:38:00.000-08:00

Stumbled past the stump of an elm.
Stark and barren land.
Starless, stared down the sky.
The stony ground.
The stagnant air.
The earth stripped to it’s starkest best.
I stood amidst the stillness.
The still before the storm

Stupid, stubborn, child.
What did you expect?
Stultified.
Stigmatized.
What will you do now?
Strike it twice.
Stab it thrice.
Stir up the storm yourself.

Snip the wings, strip the guise.
Strain at the halter at the neck.
Stunt the growth.
Stem the flow.
Stifle all signs of life.
Struggle in vain.
Stew in your pain.
A stuttering, stammering stooge.

Stay awhile,
Stop and stare.
Point a finger at his hair.
Fling a pin,
Rub it in,
You see, he’s not quite there.

2006-01-14T20:59:00.000-08:00

What do you think of this? Or rather, what do you make of it?

Isn't this picture awesome:

2006-01-14T20:30:00.000-08:00

14th January 2006

They stood outside the parlour, talking. They had come for some ice-cream. Two youths, a young lady and a girl. The two youths and the young lady were engaged in conversation. The girl stood silently by. The youths and the young lady talked and joked. The youths teased the young lady and she laughed prettily back at them, flushed with pleasure. She loved the attention. The little girl stood with her arms folded firmly across her chest and stared at the ground. Occasionally she looked up at the sky. The young lady continued to flirt and talk. The men gave her their undivided, devoted attention. They were having fun. They had forgotten the little girl, although she stood in the circle, facing them. They did not notice that they had excluded her from the conversation. Or that everytime she looked up at the sky, she mouthed something silently to herself.

The young lady was brushing something off the front of one of the young men’s coats. The little girl wondered why. Couldn’t he do it for himself? The other young man flicked the lady on the back of her neck. She giggled at him. And, “Take me home,” pleaded the little girl to herself. “I wish I could,” she replied forlornly. Then appalled at having caught herself talking to herself, she hastily fixed her eyes on the ground.

They were at a party. The two men, the lady, and the little girl. It was not a chilly evening, but the girl had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders. The young lady had given the shawl a funny look and said, “How bohemian.” “Exactly,” the little girl had thought with satisfaction.
The young lady herself was wearing a short dress, high heels, and was painted and perfumed. But that’s how the men liked her. To them, one wasn’t a lady if one wasn’t painted and perfumed, waxed and plucked, permed and powdered. The young men devoted themselves to her, brought her drinks, served her ice-cream, lit her cigarettes. She loved their willing, adoring servitude. Once, she expansively bade one of them to get the girl something to eat. He hurriedly brought her some chocolate and rushed back to wait on the lady. The little girl eyed the chocolate with distaste. She hated sweets. She wished someone would offer her a cigarette. But no one did.
“Never mind,” the little girl told herself, looking down at her shawl. The reason for wearing the shawl was underneath it. Underneath, she clutched a book. When she saw that the others had forgotten her once more, she extracted her book and began to read.
“How rude to be reading a book at a party!” exclaimed the young lady suddenly. She walked up to the corner where the little girl sat, and grabbed the book out of her hands. The little girl tightened her lips. You insist on dragging me along, she thought, but that’s where you feel your duty ends. You never care whether I enjoy myself or not. And then you deprive me of my source of sustenance.
“Hold this,” said the lady petulantly to one of her serfs. He obediently took the book from her. “Try and be a little sociable,” she said to the girl. “Don’t sit in a corner like and unloved waif.”
Like and unloved waif? thought the little girl. Aloud she said, “May I have a cigarette?”
“You may,” answered the lady condescendingly. But looked on jealously when one of the men lit it for the girl.
I hate all of you, thought the little girl. And then, No, I despise you.

2006-01-13T20:51:00.000-08:00

Run and hide
Run and hide
Which comes first?
Run or Hide?
Do you run first?
Or do you hide first?
Beats me
Eats me
Suits me fine
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
Which are you?
The Ugly
Suits me fine
Hearts sublime
My poem don’t rhyme
Come unto me
All ye who are weary
And I will give you rest

2006-01-12T02:17:00.000-08:00

Crawl into a hole and die. Die.
Die. You evil witch,
What are you waiting for?

The Second Coming?
Judgement Day?
This world has nothing to give you.

Maybe an illusion, a fleeting glimpse.
Nothing more.
A hole in a wall.

Four children is what she wants.
And you? You good-for-nothing wretch.
You miserable little worm.

Black. Black. Come here.
Hold on to your shoe laces.
Here we go.

Cold hits my face.
Aah. Thank you.
Leave me alone, you miserable little wretch.

Target for far away laughter.
Always liked that phrase, didn’t you?
Hah.

Serve you right.
Get thee gone, you little fool.
Let the earth hide thee.

Pest. That’s what they call her.
You’re better off that way.
Split the bugle.

Stop. Stop. The kettle’s on the boil.
Stop the train!
Want some?

Get away, get away.
Run. Hide.
The world has nothing to give you.

And you have nothing
To give to
It.

LadyLazarus

2006-01-07T05:49:00.000-08:00

To propagandize Pink Floyd to the best of my ability is my aim in life. Not many understand Pink Floyd, let alone appreciate them. The founder of Pink Floyd was Syd Barret. He was the lead guitarist before David Gilmour. But you know, it was Gilmour who taught Syd how to play a lot of complicated stuff. Roger Waters was the bass guitarist. While Syd was in the scene, he wrote most of the songs. Waters wrote a little. But after Syd left, or rather, was asked to leave, Waters did most of the composing. Nick Mason was the drummer, (he shares his birthday with Wolfgang Amadeus Mortzart), and Richard Wright was the pianist.

2006-01-07T04:53:00.000-08:00

If you thought you were psycho, check this fellow out. This is Syd.

When he wrote --- “The lunatic is on the grass”, and “The lunatics are in my brain…… You raise the blade, You make the change, You rearrange me till I’m sane”, Waters was referring to Syd.

Syd the guitarist:

Here’s another psycho. The inimitable Waters.

Dave Gilmour, the guitar god:

The pianist Rick Wright. Great Gig In The Sky (DTOtM), is one of his best:

This is how the band originally started out, with Mason, Wright, Waters and Barret.

Here they are. Look at Syd’s stance. It’s obvious he’s the leader of the band.

And then David Gilmour was invited to join the band:

And Syd got pushed to the rear:

Then he got pushed out altogether:

And everybody knew Pink Floyd as Wright, Gilmour, Waters and Mason:

Of course they were brilliant:

Everybody loved them :

And forgot Syd. The founder. The lunatic.

The raver, the seer of visions, the miner for truth and illusion. The genius.

Syd with his band

Syd’ band no more

The man who kicked the genius out:

And formed the band in his own image

The eternal Pink

Portrait of Syd:

* * *

Against stupidity…..

….the Gods themselves……

…..contend in vain.

2006-01-05T05:46:00.000-08:00

I do confess I’m curious
‘Bout what you said. It’s spurious,
Innit? Your statement made so loud
And pompously? To think I bowed
And hailed and worshipped you!

It is rather unfortunate.
But I have no one to berate
But myself. You are not to blame
For having feet of clay. A shame,
Though, that you have no clue

About yourself. Well, I suppose
Humans have flaws, and otiose
‘Twould be to blame you ‘bout your feet.
Clay, I presume, is good as peat.
There have been in my life

Just one too many who have let
Me down. Or left me feeling wet.
And cold. And filled with bitterness.
I do not think I will suppress
My feelings any more.

What will I do? I’ll write this rhyme.
I’ll see that I keep perfect time,
Rhyme all my words and do my best,
Put my style and content to test.
I think – no, I am sure

I will confound that schizoid dame
Who Lady Lazarus by name
Is hailed. She flaunts her writing skill,
Does she? I’ll show her, yes I will.
My pen will be my knife.

With it I will gouge out your eyes
That try to look so keen and wise.
In truth you know they’re paranoid.
You try to fill that hurtful void
With scathing sarcasm.

My knife your bosom will impale,
Dig out your heart, which I will nail
With great precision to a tree.
That in itself enough will be
To end your orgasm.

( I think her Ladyship will be
A little proud of me when she
Reads this. She may even be glad
To join me. Joy is to be had
In blood and gore and pain. )

No right have you to criticize,
Or judge, or hurt. For in you lies
The greatest flaw. The pot can’t call
The kettle black. I have lost all
My sincerest respect.

Well, I’ll excuse your feet of clay,
For it is better, any day,
Than inflammation of the brain.
Can no creed, liturgy or pain,
My hero resurrect.

But hatred will I always bear,
And bitterness that none can share
Or ease. I can’t begin anew.
This is my parting word to you:
So much for being vain!

2006-01-04T01:56:00.000-08:00

The place was thronging. It was decorated elaborately in flowers. White flowers. There were smiles and flashbulbs. Outside waited a carriage, also bedecked with flowers. A pair, arm entwined, preceded the crowd that spilled out of the building and down the steps. Someone held open the door of the carriage. Everyone cheered as the two settled in and drove off.
The place was thronging. It was decorated elaborately in flowers. White flowers. No one smiled and no bulbs flashed. Outside waited a carriage, also bedecked with flowers. Five people bearing a long, narrow casket preceded the crowd that spilled out of the building and down the steps. Someone held open the door of the carriage. A grey silence hung heavily upon everyone as the casket was settled in among the flowers and driven away.

2006-01-03T08:43:00.000-08:00

A mellow winter’s afternoon.
And I, with pencil and notebook
Sit by myself; alone, at peace.
This moment, for a day in June
I would not trade. And you mistook
Me for a brazen harlot. Lease

Your mind to me awhile and I
Will give you in return, a glimpse
Of this world as perceived by me.
Explain myself? I will not try
To do what I cannot. My whims
And fancies and quirks are, you see,

A trifle warped. Well, I begin
From right here where I sit. I raise
My head and through the window see
Green. A colour that is within
My reach. Though gentle, it can graze
And draw blood. I do like green tea.

Envy and jealousy are not
What I see in green. For there lies
In it infinite beauty. Find
Depends on what you seek. And thought
May be nothing but pure surmise.
Green is the colour of my kind.

I sit and write. My door is shut
To tyrants and to wimps. Who then,
You may well ask, is allowed in?
No one! I shout, triumphant. But,
My casement wide is thrown open
To those who fly. Do enter in

If you have touched such heights that make
You feel and be your utmostest.
For you, on honey-dew have fed.
So let my bower, for Beauty’s sake,
Unravaged be. For I protest
Most strongly to intrusion. Tread

Gently and with care. For though each
One’s honey-dew taste not the same,
Each has the power to share his own
With another. So I beseech:
Do not upset my cup. A shame
T’will be if spilt. For it is known,

That which is spilt can’t be retrieved.
And ne’er was bliss obtained by force.
They prod, they probe, they pick my brain,
But that little which is received
Is only what I give. Of course,
This harlot’s glimpse is just the same!

2006-01-03T08:36:00.000-08:00

.

That day we took a Charlie’s Angels snap. On the Babe’s insistence. The Babe never asks. Only insists. Solitary Reaper was a trifle flummoxed. She didn’t object. She’s not the assertive kind. Actually she is, but she’s rather fond of the Babe. Well, she was neither here nor there. So she didn’t quite mind. The other girl was too busy laughing. It was rather hilarious. I did have fun.

.

2006-01-03T08:31:00.000-08:00

Don’t crease the paper. It hurts my sensibilities. Why do you say “fuc*” so much? It’s not that a great a word, really. I don’t live two lives. This is just me. Don’t touch me. Don’t you have a pencil of your own? Show me your hands first. Make sure nobody sits on my chair. Guard it with your life. I’ve made the most marvelous mousse. SHUT THE DOOR. Onions. Onions. I’m doing it, aren’t I? You needn’t butt in. Go away. That’s my fork. Why do you have to use MY fork? Give it back. Don’t let that hag in. Shut the door. Don’t you have your own nailcutter? It’s unhygienic. Daddy, where are you? COME HERE. Selenium. My feet are numb. Numb. Numb. Feel like strangling you. Ewwww….your neck is filthy. I’m not strangling you. Have you flushed the toilet? You can come in but you’ll have to take your shoes off. Don’t sit on my bed. Hate you. Stab. Stab. Can’t find my handkerchief. Don’t touch me. I know you’re actually wiping your hands on my shirt.

2006-01-02T22:27:00.000-08:00

I’m sleepy. But I have to write this. Slept for a full twelve hours last night. And yet I want to sleep now. Shows how stressed out I am. Got too much on my mind. Knowledge without which I would have been better off. The simplest, most innocuous looking things are actually complicated. Dealing with the human mind is a nightmare. A nightmare. I wish I hadn’t a mind. Wish I didn’t think. My bitter cup is full and brimming.

2006-01-02T01:28:00.000-08:00

“Hey.”
Leave me alone.
“Hellooo?”
Go away.
“Hey kid.”
(groan) Please, please leave me alone.
“Get up, kid.”
Hate you.
“Get up! Get up!”
Smash it. Smash it.
“Get up RIGHT NOW!”
Throw. Throw. Shatter.
“Come here.”
Ignore him. Shut off.
“Come HERE, I said.”
There’s no need to cry. There’s no need to cry. Control yourself. You sissy. Stop it. Stop it.
“What did Father Westall always say?”
God. And I’m not even doing anything.
“I said what did Father Westall always say?”
Tell you what, pick up that brick and fling it at his head.
“Hey.”
Smash his skull in.
“Here kid. Are you listening?”

2006-01-01T17:38:00.000-08:00

She’s a cut above me. Always was. I acknowledge her superiority. Always will. I do not adulate her as I do the Solitary Reaper. But I respect her as I do no other. I stand in awe of her. She taught me the secret of the Pyramid. She taught me ender’s game. She taught me how to rise above that which I despise.

She stoops to the likes of green leaves and blooms. She has a weakness for plants and pages. She likes the taste of blood. She is fascinating.

She was the sadist while I was the hedonist. But we found it wasn’t very difficult to be sado-hedonistic. She talked about xenocide and baby universes. I, about double sharps and aciacaturas. But she was the one who taught me how to tune a guitar. And learnt from me, how inclusive and exclusive, love can get.

Galadriel’s Mirror and Scarborough Fair. Echoes on the turning away. We tackled them together. We had momentary lapses of reason and glimpsed the piper at the gates of dawn. We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year.

She is unique. A genius. The Ungulate.

2005-12-31T07:14:00.000-08:00

“Take it off, it’s ugly.”

“Is it? But that’s not the issue, or is it?”

“What are you talking about? Just take it off, will you?”

“But why?”

“It’s……it’s rather bong.”

“So?”

“So it’s ugly. It looks very ugly.”

“I like how it looks.”

“It looks terrible on you.”

“Leave her alone.”

“No wait. I’d like to know what else she has to say.”

“Just that. It’s so common.”

“I’m sure.”

“That’s just your personal opinion.”

“And it looks so cheap.”

“I agree. It was cheap.”

“I don’t see what difference that makes.”

“I don’t either. But let’s give her a hearing at least.”

“How benevolent.”

“I know. Magnanimous.”

“Yes. Aren’t I?”

“Well, get to the point.”

“The point? Take it off.”

“No.”

“Why not.”

“I like it.”

“I don’t.”

“That makes no difference to me.”

“I suppose not…….”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Darling, resolve this peacefully, will you?”

“I’d love to, but she’s being so stubborn.”

“Well, aren’t you?”

“Well…..I suppose….”

“You suppose correctly.”

“I know. I always do.”

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

“Well, your taste is of the lowest order.”

“Darling, taste is just a matter of opinion. Hahahahahahaha!”

2005-12-30T05:07:00.000-08:00

Pitch black. I extend one arm tentatively. Nothing but empty space. Withdrawing my hand I stand still for a moment. What is this feeling that is welling up? Fear? No, I think. It’s worse than that. It’s despair. Helplessness. Not against the darkness; but the nullity, the void. I take a step backwards and grope behind me. Ah, here is something solid. A wall. I move carefully, eagerly, and having found it, ease my relieved back against it. Then, stretching one arm outwards, across the wall, I edge forwards. All the while, against the wall. The cold cuts through me. I do not mind. Instead, I relish it. Savour the cold in every pore of my body, on my cheeks and on my mouth. Then I start. A brush of something warm against my fingertips. A fleeting brush. But it is warmth. I reach out hopefully. Yes, I feel it again. As I pause and wonder what it could be, I feel it once more. This time, reaching out on its own. Eagerly, I move forward. But I cannot locate it. I try once more, with little success. Sighing, I stand still. That same feeling again. But just as I feel it’s not worth it, I feel a breath of warmth. Eagerly, I lean forward. “Please,” I pray silently, as my fingers fumble around, searching. “No,” I hear, the answer conveyed in thought. “Why??” I plead, bewildered, astonished, “Don’t you hope? Don’t you dream?” There is no answer. I find that my fingers are still; they have ceased to seek. Then, not quite believing it, I find something closing, hesitantly, around my fingers. Something warm. Something firm. The fingers of another. Breathless, I wait. But my elation is snatched away too soon. Whoever it was has withdrawn. “Wait,” I call out. “No,” comes the answer. It is an entreaty. I am puzzled. I can hear the unspoken longing, the wistfulness. “But why?” cries out my mind. I cannot understand it. Silence. “Why??????” I cannot veil the hysteria. There is a pause. Then, “Because…” I wait anxiously. “Because I am afraid.” I stop short. Not believing what I have heard. Not wanting to believe. For a fleeting instant I am seized with a feeling of overwhelming anger and wretchedness. And then I find myself convulsed in amused, maniacal laughter.

.

2005-12-22T01:16:00.000-08:00

“Of course you’re ugly………you’re very ugly……..my God!!……..I don’t…. actually yes, I do. He’s such a loser………blasphemous, aren’t I……yes, I did….…and?.……you don’t?……why not?……so what someone else says, we will blindly follow….…..and who is this Philip?………..more fool you…....and you’re a stupid camel……stupid bong……then you’re Chinese……yes you are……you don’t realize it, but you are…….aaah, that explains it all……..the noose on the fan and the blade on the wrist……..nothing……no, never mind……… …girls always jump to conclusions……Pratt Memorial School?…….nice people don’t talk about those things…….I’m a nice person…….what are you’ll doing there?…….tell him to get his ass here!……….he’s got his priorities sorted out???Hahahahaha……..why again, am I doing this??…..….he can?……very generous, isn’t he…….I can’t believe this, look, I am reeeeeeeeally flattered……...is that what you’ll sit and do there???……..”

2005-12-21T19:59:00.000-08:00

This is an exchange of letters. Not a blog really and nothing phenomenal, but I’ve posted it because it makes good reading.

Hey Fatso,
This is Mummy’s e-mail address so do not pollute my account with undesirably, repulsive post. I met Mini (of the debating fame) from whom I procured Apala’s phone number. It is 9894879907.
Do not hope for any correspondence from Lukey. He is a hopeless letter-writer. The latest news is that Mummy thinks he is my “boyfriend” and is getting her blood pressure high on it. By the way, his addy is lukeatme@hotmail.com.
You can be sure that this epistle has been closely scrutinized by our beloved mater. So, I will leave more juicy bits for a face to face tête-à-tête. Rather obvious, isn’t it, how I am endeavoring to cipher this.
Did you read the rap song by Adip that I sent you? If not, I’m sending it again. It’s damn cute and you better compliment him on it when you write to Aditi next.

You wanna bet, Dude?
Give me some food.
It’s not easy,
I’m getting weazy ‘round the ears.
But I ain’t gonna fear,
Just give me a cold beer
So I can cheer you up.
I ain’t gonna bet.
You know, there’s something on the guitar fret
That’s turning up the heat
Round here.
I ain’t no cheat,
Move your feet!
Your teeth look white, you know
Come on let’s fight!
I know it’s gonna be tight
But you can’t bite
Me.
Oh yeah, you need some invitation?
But you know, in the end I’ll have the jubilation
Of fighting someone my own size.
It’s a pity you’re not a guy.
Oh yeah, you think I’m gonna die,
But even if I die I ain’t gonna cry
‘Cause I ain’t a fish fry.
So you can try
Dude, but I’ll dry you up
And I’ll have you for my sup.
You think you’re a dog
But actually you’re just a pup.
Oh yeah, you’re getting frisky
Time for me to have my whisky.
Now I’m really high.
I can’t even put on my tie.
But you’re still fisting me up and down
We’re both flexing our muscles
But it ain’t a classic tussle
But now I’m falling,
I’m going down and down and down…………

So, Adip is becoming a regular composer (Aditi always was), his idol being John Mayer (who I think looks like Sria Chatterjee). BTW, Sria won Principal’s Award and Krittika looked fit to kill her. So much for them being inseparable buddies.
Are you coming home with Rahul? He seems to be one of those overfed Bongs, rather sentimental about his food.
Well, Au Revoir, mon ami, till we meet again,
Stuff it!

hey you idiot, how many times are you gonna send me that rap song? now you're also getting alzheimer's or what? and you can tell lukey dear that his email account is most prob non existant coz none of the emails i tried sending him got sent. and what in the world gives you the impression that i'm dying to know what krittika looked like when sria was getting some award or other? you can cross your eyes at both of them from me for all i care.
by the way, that guy's name is rohit, not rahul, though the food part is quite accurate. please start a prayer chain for me out there in cal, as i will have to travel with that guy for 2 days. also kindly present this as prayer request in EU and youth meeting and cottage preyer meeting and women's fellowship meeting, which i'm sure you have joined by now.
how is anjali sengupta? is she still making it the aim of her life to drive martinians to the verge of suicide? my hairstyle is becoming kind of like hers. and my figure is growing steadily in the horizontal direction, while my accent is twisting and turning into a mallu-tamilian combo. my favourite _expression is 'aiyyo' and it comes out involuntarily.
gotta go now as i have a class. actually, we're supposed to be having sociology class right now, and she asked us to submit an assignment which we didn't. so she sent us to the library to write the assignment and submit it by the end of 2 hrs. we finished writing identical assignments (i was dictating and everyone else was taking dictation) ja hok kore in 15 minutes and then came to the computer lab! yayyyyy! that teacher's still waiting in the class room for us to return. we shall go in due time. ha ha ha ha ha.

To the Solitary Reaper

2005-12-21T19:52:00.000-08:00

Welcome back. I was wondering what happened to you.

the PSYCHO guy

2005-12-20T19:48:00.000-08:00

The Psycho Guy is mean, low, underhand. He is a bleeding bastard. A snivelling skunk. Now that i've answered those questions it's only fair that you tell me the reason behind asking them.

2005-12-20T18:21:00.000-08:00

Sitting on the shore,
Coaxing the waves to
Come and caress my feet with
It’s loving warmth.
The cove is empty.
Solitary me.
I’m alone with the sea.
I lower my feet into a rock pool,
Running my fingers through the water.
But the sea is cold to
Me.
I edge closer,
But it seems to shrink from me,
Playing with my feelings as I yearn for a touch.
The water encircles,
Advances,
Retreats,
But never touches me.
I sit still,
In the hope that it will be encouraged
To approach.
It does approach.
Ever so slightly.
Warily.
Breathless, I wait.
It approaches further,
Further.
Further.
It will touch me now.
I’m excited.
Then in a sudden sweep
It rushes away.
Leaving me
Dry.
And empty.

.

LadyLazarus

2005-12-19T00:35:00.000-08:00

She’s stupid. She’s dumb. She’s a PAIN. A PAIN, PAIN, PAIN. Stupid sop. She cries. Of course I cry too. But not like her. She’s a hindrance to me. A HINDRANCE. Die. Die. Just DIE, you bleeding bitch. I HATE her. No I don’t. It’s just that she must drag me into her stupid, stupid escapades and hurt me. WHY DO YOU WANT TO HURT ME??? I never interfere with what you do. So why can’t you let me be? Why? WHY? I don’t ask for much. In fact I don’t ask for anything. Don’t think about me. Just forget that I exist. Just let me be. Leave me alone. Please leave me alone. Please

LadyLazarus

2005-12-19T00:32:00.000-08:00

She’s been here. She’s been here. Can you believe it. She dared. And I didn’t even realize. The bitch. Fool. FOOL. That’s ME. I’M the fool. I could have stopped her. THE BITCH. I could have stopped her. SHE’S CONTAMINATED HOLY GROUND. I hate her. I hate her. I HATE HER. She can’t leave me alone. She has to do this to me. Every time. Make a fool of yourself ON YOUR OWN. Don’t involve ME. Leave me out of it. Please. please. I just want some peace. Some quiet. Some space of my own, on my own. Please.

2005-12-18T23:30:00.000-08:00

The other girl wants to come here and justify my existence. I’m not going to let her. I’m not. I’m not. She don’t dare do it. This is mine. Mine. Belongs EXCLUSIVELY TO ME. She has no right here. I hate her. I hate her. She says there’s a lot of explaining to be done. Explaining. Explaining. THAT’S ALL SHE EVER DOES. She’s so anxious for people to see her for what she really is. I don’t care what people think about me. They have the right to think WHAT they want. They can jump to any conclusion about me. I don’t care. But she does. That’s the difference between her and me. She’s always explaining herself. Now she wants to justify me. I don’t need myself explained.. I’m not answerable to anyone. She has no right to do this. She’s always had greater control. She’s always dominated the action. But after that day, I’ve found I can control things too. And I’m not going to let her intrude upon my own personal territory. I’m not. I’m not. I’m not.

2005-12-17T02:53:00.000-08:00

My friend is soft-spoken. She is a quiet, unobtrusive person. She does not talk to everyone. She does not like talking to everyone. She will not talk to you if she does not want to. She will be rude to you if you are particularly irritating or persistently moronic. She makes no bones about letting you know if she does not like you.

My friend keeps aloof. Prefers to remain in the periphery of the zone of action. She dislikes the noise and mindless chatter the others indulge in. She desires nothing more than to be left by herself with her beloved music.

My friend is essentially a loner. She cannot make friends easily. She has one close friend who, though nice and sweet and compassionate, belongs to this bunch of bimbos. This friend of my friend’s, helped her in her time of trouble, gave her support when she most needed it. And my friend is extremely fond of her. So to humour her, she hangs around with these other people. Thus is she acquainted to giddy, frivolous people.

These giddy, frivolous, loud people consist of brats, snobs and over-weight, pimply, fleshy-nosed sluts. My friend does not like them. She cannot talk to them. This is because their interests differ greatly from hers. They like gossiping, tonelessly loud music, and partying. Their topics of conversation are limited to boys, their own clothes, and other people’s clothes. They are the sort of people to whom, a piece of music, if not the common thing that is played at all parties, is “boring”; an article of clothing if not like everyone else’s, is unfashionable; a person whose vocabulary is not limited to the slang that everyone uses, is “uncool”. They ridicule those who are not like them.

Now these people, consider My Friend weird. They try to tell her what she ought to do and what she ought not to do. They try to rectify her defects, and help her fill in what she lacks. They give her their exclusive advice and esteemed opinions, and try to inculcate in her, Good Taste.

So my friend is rude to them. She does not hesitate in telling them what she thinks. She does not believe she is answerable to anyone for what she does. She does not think they have the right to tell her who to talk to, what to listen to, what to do.
So she is an outcast.

They criticize her aloofness, look askance at her desire to be by herself. If, during a party, she walks a little way off to be on her own, she is labeled unbalanced. If she chooses to stay back in the hotel room instead of going out with everyone to have a blast, they call her mentally disturbed. If she prefers her own company in a darkened room instead of the raucous and asinine company in the adjacent room, then she is a doped misfit.

My friend is soft-spoken. She is very interesting to listen to. We enjoy each other’s company. We have several things in common and never lack a topic for conversation.

Those people, do not like me.

They do not approve of me because I am not cool enough. They tell her I am unsuitable for her. They tell her I am rude and will not be able to fit into society. Because I do not find their jokes funny. Because I snub their “sarcastic” (and sadly predictable) lines. And because they cannot ridicule me. Because I am not of the opinion that they are as cool as they consider themselves. Because I know them for what they are : ridiculous. And tell them so.

They resent her talking to me. They shoot us malevolent looks when we are in conversation. They are mean to her if she talks to me. They think it is abnormal to be talking about music and poetry. They are too crude to appreciate the finer things in life. They do not see what we see.

My friend is a loner. A Solitary Reaper.

2005-12-15T23:33:00.000-08:00

What moves you? What is it that stirs chords within you? What are the things that one finds so infinitely touching that it could make one cry?
Dear Reader, this is a question I want you to seriously consider and LET ME KNOW. I really want to know what moves people. For me, it’s music. Nothing touches me as deeply as music. Sometimes I hear a piece that touches me so much that I want to be it. Do you take my meaning?
While listening to music, I’ve often felt that I could just melt into it; fuse with it to be one. Other times I’ve felt my soul seem to rise above my physical being; rise with the music. Some of Scarlatti’s sonatas have made me feel that way. Stuff like Any Colour You Like and Fearless, Marooned, Cymbaline and Astronome Domine and the Brandenburg Concertos have that effect on me as well. The feeling is incomparable. It’s like an emotional peak, nothing could make me feel so uplifted, so awed. Nothing could move me so deeply.
So is music the only thing that moves people? What are the things that move others? I really want to know. What are the things that can touch a person’s soul so deeply?

LadyLazarus

2005-12-15T23:32:00.000-08:00

Sorry for the previous incoherence. Just something that had to be got out of me.

2005-12-15T06:43:00.000-08:00

Jump. Jump. Jump. Wash hands. Wash hands. Clean hands. Clean feet. Clean feet. Clean hands. Jump. Jump. WASH YOUR HANDS. NOW. Throw. Throw. Break. Break. Break. Shatter it. HAMMER. Hit. Hit. WASH YOUR HANDS. Get off my carpet. OFF. Off. Off. Wash your feet. Wash. Wash. Why don’t you listen to me? WASH YOUR FEET. WASH YOUR HANDS. Clean hands. Clean feet. Clean hands. Clean hands. Don’t touch my things. DON’T TOUCH. Put it back. Leave it where it was. EXACLY WHERE IT WAS. No. Give it to me. Don’t touch. Don’t. Don’t. DON’T TOUCH MY THINGS. Leave me alone. Alone. Go away. Go. GO. Leave me alone. It’s hurting. Hurting. Hurting.

2005-12-14T05:39:00.000-08:00

It’s 11:44 p.m., and I’m drowsy. But I know I shan’t be able to sleep once I switch the light off. My brain’s been working overtime of late. Haven’t slept well for over a week. Which is not very comforting. I’m a person who needs my sleep to function decently. I can’t breathe. My head hurts.

Need to switch the light off, but am too comfortable to want to get out of bed.

Am feeling especially lonely of late. Perhaps I’m pitying myself. But as I recall recent incidents, I feel betrayed. Even abandoned. Perhaps the psycho guy is correct about love. Or at least in his avoidance of it.

But perhaps there are other things in life worth living for.

I feel like curling into a ball, rolling into a hole in the ground and staying there. Would feel infinitely better.

Well, Sleep cometh as my comforter as last.

2005-12-13T08:58:00.000-08:00

You cannot reach me now.
No matter how you try.
Goodbye cruel world, it’s over,
Walk on by.

LadyLazarus

2005-12-12T07:26:00.000-08:00

Her voice is loud, her speech loud and incessant. She is talking to me. I don’t want to listen. I wish she would go away. I want to be left alone, with my thoughts and my writing. I want back that quiet that she destroyed when she walked in.
She’s having a coughing fit now. She’s asking me for water. I don’t have any. So she goes out looking for some. I’m left to myself again.
God be thanked.
But this quietus is not to be. She’s back. Why couldn’t she have just choked to death.

the music

2005-12-12T07:09:00.000-08:00

The only form of life I have seen in days is The Thing. He is broad and hulking. And disgustingly hairy. The Thing walks up and down constantly. Occasionally he comes and rattles my cage. Probably out of lack of anything else to do. It doesn’t disturb me though. Rather, it amuses me.
What does disturb me is the music. It plays in my head: ceaseless, merciless, till I want to scream and cry in frustration. But I’m not insane, no. A long way from it in fact. Because I know that I’m right. I believe in what I do. They might chain me, they might stop me from acting. But they can’t stop me from thinking. That, is beyond their control.
I think, therefore I am.
The Thing is looking at me. His fleshy tuber of a face is pressed against the grill. Something yellow and slimy trickles out from the corner of his mouth. He lets out a grunt. And then the music starts again. My face contorts involuntarily in pain. The Thing supposes it is his grunt that has upset me. His face twists into an ugly leer and he grunts some more.

The music continues relentlessly. And so does the inability to breathe.

Untitled

2005-12-12T06:59:00.000-08:00

I can hear my name being called out. It is a jarring, harsh sound. But that’s because of the microphone. The sound stabs at me, forcing me out of my insulation. The insulation I create against crowds. Pretending they don’t exist. Enveloping myself in thought, into my private, idyllic world.

Kicking and screaming, my mind is dragged out into consciousness.

The crowd around me is not aware that the name being called out is mine. So far not bad. But they will soon know. I will have to go up to the dais. Then everyone will turn to look at me. I cannot bear people looking at me.

I hate crowds.

Why do I have to go up? Walk past the crowd, climb up the steps and stand on the dais. Be exposed to scrutiny. I don’t want the damn prize. Everyone will stare at me. Tear down my defenses with their prying eyes.

I can hear the voice again. Repeating my name over and over. I hate it. Reluctantly I drag my feet towards the dais. People are beginning to turn. I scowl at the ground and fold my arms across my chest.

To have won is all very well. Why must they embarrass me? As I walk to the front, I am seized with an insuppressible desire to lash out at the people with a hatchet. Cut them up into tiny bits.Instead, I pull my jacket tighter around myself. I reach the foot of the dais. I begin to mount the steps. And then I trip. For a moment, images slide incongruously past my line of vision. Then all is black.