ABOUT 'HER'...

This is a question I ought to be asking myself every time I mention a female in anything I write, in anything I conceive and wish to take formative shape. And I guess I could probably end up asking myself this, if only I didn’t know the answer already, and since I do, I don’t think there’s much of a point in discussing about that with myself. That’s predominantly why, I guess, I wished to share that part of my mind with you, (whoever you might be) which holds the knowledge as to who ‘she’ is. And I’m not filling a gossip column with this post, no way, and I guess you’d know about the validity of this remark in due course.

True, there was a phase when I believed that a writer is nothing but what inspires him or who inspires him, in which case (particularly the latter) it’s that person or thing that ‘writes through him’, or more precisely, that I do nothing but string words together, while it’s ‘she’ who injects life into my concoction, that it’s ‘she’ who paints the eyes and brings the dragon alive. And the past tense is to denote not that this ‘phase’ is not in existence anymore, but just that I now live a subtle evolution of what I once was, with a hint of a lot of egotism that makes me think like, “Heck, I can string something without my coke, because I’m no junkie”. Sad that I contradicted this statement an age before. I guess that’s what eighteen did to me, while its predecessor was an age of innocence. And yeah, there’s a sense of purpose that’s gone missing too, because until the ‘now phase’, I had a reason for writing whatever I wrote, but now it’s like all the reason’s gone and I write just to show the world that I can do it better than most, again with self-justification, so that I don’t find myself out of order.

So, who’s ‘she’, then? Who do I dream about in the night, who do I want to splash on, who do I want to impact the way she hits me?

She’s no one. I know it sounds lame, but I am justified at saying that there’s no one in particular that I make a subject of my works, not even a memory, or a longing, she’s more like a fact of life. It’s like ‘she’ is always there, and always has to be and there’s no way that I can think the way I think without tagging her in. Because I believe that ‘she’ would forever be a part of what I am, and her lack of particularity doesn’t thwart her genuineness in any way. Which means that I can pass her off as ‘Lydia’, as a non-existent ‘ideal’ girl, someone who’s like me but is female, someone who’s not detached from the real world but is immune to it and cannot be affected by anything unless she wants to be affected; so-called ‘perfections’, you know, but no, not really. She’s nowhere close to being perfect, although there’s a stage where she’d be, the time I first see her from when there’s going to be a slump from infinity, and while her peers, her counter-parts make their way down to below zero, she stays above and we’re balanced against each other, meaning she doesn’t get any lower in my opinion than I get in hers. And ‘Lydia’ is just her name, a name that Mayer used twice, a name that’s sufficiently intriguing, but I won’t call her that, no, because I know that once she gets some flesh and bones about her spirit, there’s a pretty thin chance that she’s not going to be called what I want her to be called, and that’s not going to affect her incredibility in any negative way, although I cannot say the same about a leg-up.

So how do I describe her in a more ‘worldly’ sense? Well, maybe she’s someone I needn’t try to make a mark on, but she’s not someone ‘who clicks’ all the same, for she can turn out to be the one who crushes me the most, one who stamps hardest, and all I can be sure about is that I’m going to like her for that: I’m going to feel nothing but joy in being a part, or a spectator of every little thing she does.

And that’s who ‘she’ is.

UNCANNY

This isn't a heap after a hiatus, this. Not because I want to differ, but because there never really was a non-physical void, I've always been in the game and buzzing at that, the only shortfall being unavailability of adequate accessories. And by the way, if I scared you with that statement, I wish to establish that I'm not really 'retracing my steps', but just tried being the 'me' that I was, and I guess I'm not going to be judgemental about the same. So coming back to 'points' from 'lines', what do I intend to communicate through this post, that's titled in a sort of 'Enid Blyton' way?

Not Blyton, really, it's Nick Drake, which means either way, the British in it is obvious. And I started with wanting to write something about it, you know, it's a substantially intriguing word, that's sort of individual both in form and meaning, and I don't know the relevance of my remarks, but as usual, I'm self-justified and anyway, I thought you don't get words like that everywhere and that I've to capitalize on it, because hey, it's Nick Drake. And that's not it, it's not the end of story, because it'd be plain absurd if it ended here, because this is sort of a first act and no story ends in its first act, right? Well, mine didn't, and neither did it drag long, because as you'd see in the picture, in Nick's own handwriting, the relevance of his use of 'uncanny' is evident, and it sort of merges with my opinion on how one should sleep in the time allotted for sleep, because that's being organized, and sure there's nothing unhealthy about being 'unconventional', but I've got to admit that there're more perks over here than there, or so I would argue, and hey, that's coming from someone who likes being 'on the other side', even if on the other side of it, and sure enough, I bungled that remark, but my point happened to be that by virtue of being what I am, I see myself being forced to take none but the stand I take in this issue. And sure, my words contradict his, but the essence, as I see, is the same, because I feel I'm sticking to myself as much as he'd stuck to what he was, and that's like a similarity of differences. Like he's as firm as I am, and though we are different in the stand that we take, we're the same in the firmness of resolve, and hence the brimming empathy, in me. Hence the admiration. And hence, everything else that accompanies it.

So finally, it's not 'uncanny', but 'Night-time' rather, and the connection comes from how uncanny I think it is, to be writing about night during the day, and though I'm done with it now, (done with the final draft, which could be my next post) talking about how I wrote is like sketching your kind of place, you know, your 'place to be': Something you look forward to being in, being amidst, and I feel slightly bad saying this, because (it's not untrue that) I look forward to the night, I look forward to sleep-off the worries I have and that's an escapade than a solution, because your dreams are just dreams, however adverse they are, and I guess I find them better than even the slightest pain of reality, because you can always wake up from a dream and feel fine, while in the case of reality, it's waking up 'to' than 'from' and that's the thorn, actually. And to escape from reality and the crises it holds up its imaginary sleeves, that I guess is the biggest crime of all, excluding those that are 'heinous'. Because sleep's inactivity, and inactivity is the antonym of 'life' and I guess I don't want to be dead.

All the same, I feel it is uncanny to be write one's views about a commonplace occurrence, a daily thing, because it connects one to everyone else, as it simultaneously disconnects one from everyone else too, because it's not 'everyone' who spits it out, who paints what he or she thinks about things. And that, I believe, is the essence of self-expression.

SOMETHING'S MISSING

It's not a provocation of Mayer craze, but I really feel that I'm missing something here. And unlike every other writer, I felt this revelation of mind, of mine was vital not because I need to inform my people that something's not right with me, but because I needed to talk to myself and I needed to tell myself that what I'm doing is nowhere close to being 'right' and that's not a negation, no, it's sort of the contrary: I don't know that I'm not being right because I'm being wrong, it's rather like I know for sure that I'm not being right, but I doubt if I'm being wrong and there's only one explanation behind this ruckus: I'm being nothing, currently.

Maybe I am being something. Maybe I'm being a boy, maybe I'm being a boy that's trying to be a man, maybe I'm being 18 years old, maybe I'm being an insincere sportsperson because I'm not trying hard enough, and maybe I can stack this ensemble on and on, but the bottom line is that I'm not being what is 'normal' to me, and it's a stage where I'm not wasting time, but killing it, and there's a difference, because wasting doesn't leave a trace, but this killing act, well it's bound to leave behind memories no pleasant than what I am now, and that's an all-time low in bitterness. And I'm inactive, yes, and unproductive, yes, and I'm completely aware of the fact that I can't possibly talk myself out of this, because more or less I have to do something to sweep out the cobwebs and tell the spiders to find home someplace else, and it's not like I'm not trying, it's just that I'm not trying hard enough. I drew something, sure, but it's nowhere near what I can manage when I'm totally productive. I haven't written anything in ages, and music's sounding monotonous to me, except when I sleep, in which case I just don't hear it at all. I guess it's an ailment, and I'm glad to give it my name if it's not been given a name yet.

No words, no patterns, no music, no cinema, no seriousness, but a hell lot of ideas and a notion of this state of mine and that precisely is, this state of mine. Like having three pens and only two hands and trying to write three poems at a time, and I guess I've got to do something to get out, and you'd know it too, on seeing how pathetic my analogy was.

'PAINTBALL' - THE ESSENCE

I don't know if this made it to the charts, but it's one of the songs of John Mayer I've listened to least, so I had to triple check on the lyrics and go wrong in the process, trying to make out what he's saying (words, not meaning) and I'm not plagiarizing it. 'Half Nelson' has hints of 'Stop this train' in the way the lyrics go about and I always find I need some music to make my words work, and I feel I don't have to look around a lot to hit on the music I would be making if I knew to hold a guitar right (which I happen to, by the way, so it's just an expression). He's always said the words in my head as I've thought them, only this time I've tried to make it more comprehensive, you know, write a whole lyric on an existing piece of music and hey, who knows! It could be my cover.


ABOVE: Reminds me of times at Kid's world, but I'm told that they're paintballs. A splash inside each.

"I'm never speaking up again,
it only hurts me;
I'll rather be a mystery, than
she desert me;

Oh, I'm never speaking up again!
I'm never speaking up again,
I'm never speaking up again...

starting now..."

translates to:

"I'll never play this paintball game,
to only get soaked, and
the ball's not the only thing that gets
a total breaking-in;

Oh, I'll never play this thing again!
I'll never play this thing again,
I'll never play this thing again...

Except this time..."

Song's 'My Stupid Mouth'. Runs 3:45 and I had my mind in it only for three-quarters of that time. Guess that's all that mattered to me. Wait for it: No joke.

ON 'HALF NELSON'

I know for sure that I don't owe one to the world already, because I still have not divulged with the refrain of 'Half Nelson - Draft #2', the second official addition to 'My Book of Rhymes', which means that it would be dropping off the tag of 'Draft #2' as soon as I decide to delete it, which I predict won't take that long. Anyway, as this post of mine is gonna end up pointless without a feature of the lines themselves, I don't think it's wise to delay any longer.

"...So stop the sun,
for what if someone shoots the moon?
Help drag my afternoon, till tomorrow,
'cause you know,
I'm just half a Nelson, under indigo..."

With full reference to Admiral Horatio Nelson, the man known more to be '111' than the successful war admiral that he was. A Nelson is, as much as I see, half a man and as a 'double Nelson' is 222 and a 'triple Nelson' is 333, I brand 'half a Nelson' as a quarter of a man, and in the context of this piece of lyric over here, a man who's single and is worrying about it with half of his mind while the rest of it is happy with the solitude, is in essence a 'Half Nelson' (I could've forgotten a hyphen in between, or I could have not but I don't give much importance to that anyway) and I'm not gonna kid anyone saying I represent every such person. That's out of the way, that's impossible and I'm not potent enough to be representing people, I'm not some God who knows exactly how the world functions, you know, hey... I only just turned 18, and I don't know to lie, so if you think you relate to this it's fine. But if you're thinking this is about you, then you're mistaken because this is not, this is something that has everything to do with me and that's not a mark of self-indulgence it's rather a sign of showing that that's the most I can claim to know and anything more said is going to be either a lie or a brag and I want to do neither.

The Sun-reference is to show that a man's shadow is his actual true company, and the night's sky isn't going to be that generous in giving him his gift, so of course, although I'm not exactly crying out in real to stop the sun (I'm not dumb enough to not know that can't be done) that's what the Metaphor intends. Perhaps this would explain my state of mind a little more, because... well you'll see.

"Can you please stop the sun?
'cause I can't stand the streetlight haze,
pushing out to four score ways, a fourth of me;
and you know,
I'm just half a Nelson, in dodging destiny..."

On the ground, people. I'm not flying anywhere, and 'dodging destiny' translates to 'living life', so please don't take me to be Robert Frost, because you know... I'm not.

HALF NELSON - DRAFT #2

I'm not going to be apologetic as I write this, but I won't be sharing the whole of the second draft of 'Half Nelson' (this to the ones who 'read') but I'll be pointing out nuances all the same, because I guess I've got reason to believe that I can't be understood unless I take the initiative to shove ahead personal interpretations of myself, and I'm burdened with doing that because people, as you all know, won't even intend to do it in the first place. And as I'm not someone who can be discounted based on surface appearances, I'm just taking the initiative to enlighten you with whatever I can tell about what I think I am.

"No one works to hide the sight,
a line of gold in the diamond light,
teams with truth, that's lying in the middle;
a heck of a little, burning bright:

It's a stock of Kryptonite..."

ABOVE: Simple painting of someone that's alone. Took it because I didn't want large-scale royalty issues.

I'm not exaggerating. I don't expect you to get the issue already, in fact I don't think I can get away even with expecting you to get it after you're done with the whole of the draft, and I don't attribute that to my abstractness, or to your incapability to make sense out of sensibility, but rather to the drift in communication that's bound to exist from man to man. Just that it's going to be magnified in the case of you and me.

"City's scrawling in my mind
that two's now the official one,
I guess I'm missing out on half the fun;
Overwritten till complete,
there's not a crease in this street,
and I'm holding the baton,
I just can't skip my run..."

A man's known no more by what he is, now it's more like he's known for what 'he's managed' or who 'he's with' and this isn't a triumph of any sort; it's not like some worldwide acceptance of the fact that there's a woman behind every big man, and I don't want to be confronted by debate on this aspect because I believe I'm the only one who sees a girl like I should, and the rest are just looking at written rules and some are breaking rules that they think are wrong. And I don't get to feel sorry that I lost my rule-book somewhere three years ago, and I'm still not searching it.

"And you won't get me off my mind,
(now would you?)
Yeah, I can see the line too..."

I seriously didn't know who I was addressing as I wrote the above lines, and the funny thing is I can justify both ends, so in the end I had to explain to myself saying that I was actually talking to both him and her (although the lines look addressed more to 'her' than 'him'). I don't want you to misinterpret my statements and take me to be someone who's laughing mockingly at the disillusioned world or something, no, I'm someone who wishes I could happily be a part of the mess and not know about it, but since I'm out of it, all I do is wish someone from the other side would make it out too so that I'd have actual company. Company I don't have to 'look for'. And 'the line' is not 'personal space' but a rather irritating mutation of that concept, where both he and she never let go of each other, because they secretly fear the other could be taken away by a vulture that's stronger than the pheasants they are, and that's sick, you know. Because I've always liked someone that's free and I've liked her freedom and I guess she'd like me back enough for me to sit back and be confident that Kes would surely get back home without me tying her to a string.

And to be otherwise is just... unfair. To her, and of course, to me.

SUBTLE SHUTTLIN'

I first wanted to make a video of myself ‘speaking’ everything I say in this, because however intolerable I might appear in a picture frame, I could at least be glad of getting the right emotional impact that I might intend to get, like how Woody Allen wanted us to get saddened by his histrionics in ‘Annie Hall’ rather than to laugh at him, but I eventually had to put the idea aside and go on with what I consider myself to be the best at, and I fixed my mind upon this chiefly because of a couple of reasons:

1. As said before, I suck at remembering my lines and even though I am not exactly editing what I write here, I don’t think my mind-mouth connection is as synchronized in function as that of my mind, finger and keyboard and I have to add that I am actually not confident about sitting a video session, however personal that is going to be.
2. I happened to read Derrida.

I’m not impersonating Stevie Ray, and I’m not robbing him of his title (yes, this is going to be a lyric that I would write in due course) I just looked for a fancy title for this post and I decided to show some loyalty to the Mayer clan, but I actually could end up calling it ‘Shuttling’ or ‘Shuttle Run’. I think the latter does more justice, considering it covers an issue than an actual act. And I think I made absolutely no sense in my previous lines, but don’t worry: What’s coming is the actual part.

It’s about this strenuous part of life I wish to call the ‘pre-prime’ that no one who’s past it would understand (because I believe that it’s a wipe of memory that highlights its end) and which the ‘pre-pre-primes’ unknowingly look up to, and this part of life is very democratic to the extent of being wasteful where you’re given a lot of things to pick from and you’re not even blindfolded so you can technically see everything you choose, and choose accordingly, but there is a little knot in this plot: You’re not intimated about what’s allowed. So the process is that you get to learn the hard way that is in truth the easiest because all you need to do is to live it, but at a non-organic level it’s not… It’s just… too affecting to say the least.

There’re red cones, there’re blue cones, there’re yellow ones and there’re even ones that are multi-coloured and there’s this special cone that’s called ‘home’ which serves to be a point of return whenever you want to turn back, whenever the fatigue is too much to take, because going on from cone to cone just takes you far from it, and that makes you want to keep an eye on how far you’ve wandered from the place you began. There’s no rule that asks you to keep going on, but you find that the next cone ahead is much closer and the cone you left behind has nothing but bad memories, and although this sounds like a progression, this isn’t because all along, you’re just moving to your side, yeah, it’s a sideward movement in life where you’re allowed to face front or let your sides face the front and you keep doing this till you get a cone and you lift her up and you advance till she burns your hands and you let her down and then you think of turning back.

But this special cone called ‘home’, well… She’s amazing because she’s where you started from, she’s given you this ‘push’ and hence becomes a sort of God to you, not in the actual way, but in the way that she’s more than just a mentor, but there’s a flipside to her too. You don’t know if you left home or if you were kicked out, and that’s part of the package called ‘doubt’ because of which you’ll never be sure if you’ll be welcomed home again, as you don’t know if you were welcome any time before in the first place, and you know… That worries you sick. Because although you don’t know if it’s an illusion or a vague recall of reality, but you have this feeling inside that everything would get back to being alright if you get back home and that’s not like it’s a give-up in life and getting back to your cubby-hole, or at least… I’m not sure what it is, but I feel like that’s what I should be doing because you know, this cone called ‘home’, she’s pure white. And it’s not unknown that every other colour is bound to call yourself to it, to pretend that it’s more attractive than the one you’re in (which is precisely what happens when you see magenta from mauve) but that’s ruled out, that’s a closed door, a dead-end when I was on white. Because white’s everything, and when I saw this dazzling display that’s going on even now in front of my eyes, I always used to tell myself that however they combine, they’re NOTHING compared to white. Because, as I quoted earlier, she’s everything and I’m exaggerating in a worldly sense beyond doubt, but that’s the point of it all: That’s the whole heck of a silver lining, this fact that I never left home as long as I was in it, and that’s a very secure feeling, something people wish would happen to them which would, but it happens just once and I learned that through the so-called ‘hard way’. I don’t know if I would be taken in, I guess I would be rather a cynic in that aspect, but I would wish to hell she would. Yeah.

And about this whole process of ‘shuttling’ failing if I refuse to leave a cone, which could end up in obesity, well… I guess she’d be enough of a toil to keep me fit for a lifetime. She’s whatever I am, the whole metaphysical entity, and right now I’m just the poor soul who has been enlightened about the concept of enlightenment, a Gautam Buddha who wants to get back to being Siddhartha after finding out that the ultimate happiness is to derive joy out of sorrow. She made me accustomed to that. And I can’t stop hearing something telling me to get back to old habits. Old School.

I’ll be writing this lyric sometime soon. I have reason to believe that I would.

ON FILM...

Could be the first thing I wrote without starting off with a title, and it so happened that I ended without one too. Supposed to serve a purpose, (which I wish it does!) and I think it has a couple of nice lines that I actually think are amazing to have come out of me, given the state of mind I was/am in, and well, to sum it up: Not my best, but all the same I guess I'm proud to induct it in 'My Book of Rhymes' honorarily, because it's one of the best reflections of the mindset I'm in.



IMAGE: Meaning behind the reference to Michelangelo (Didn't think it's required, but you can never tell :P). His famed 'The Last Judgement' on the ceiling of Sistine Chapel. I guess you'd make the rest up yourself.

UNTITLED

Nothing's art, art's nothing.

It's always been a bunch,
splashing sketches on the screen,
and I guess it always would be
what it's always been;

A finger on the keyhole window,
and a publicist to raise the stakes;
a parade of popularity pimps,
living on green than gasps or double-takes;

Sick of being stunted by the painted sky,
let's bid Michelangelo goodbye...

A sliver of a shift from shelf to street,
stitched-up scenes, with the lines unseen
helping make the nothingness complete;
reaching out to a cynical world
determined not to turn the leaf,

All done for this bumper prize
that we call 'BELIEF'...

P.S. I hope you got all the Mayer signs :)

WHO ARE YOU?

I actually feel a bit embarrassed to say that this 'lyric' of mine actually began with the framework of a tune, and that 'tune' was something that I came up with, and as excited as I was about it in the beginning, it took me a day and a half to realize that it was unmistakeably mundane, resembling songs that can't actually be called as songs, and I even had ripped a bit off Mayer's cover of Marvin Gaye's 'Inner City Blues (make me wanna holler)', and so... Those reasons, as well as a change of mind midway related to the mood of the lyric itself, I decided to call it off and stop with whatever I had written, and I must say that although this one isn't actually going to be a part of 'My Book of Rhymes', the fact that it inspired a new bunch of words under the title 'IDENTITY' (something that I'd write soon, I hope) as well as its statement-like verses made me want to archive it all the same. So, here's 'WHO ARE YOU?' for you, as much as I had written it.

WHO ARE YOU?



So you have a strand of white, to hide
the blackness that's bright inside,
how many layers have you got to undo,
to see the real you?

What happened to your bow-tie?
Has the 'occasion' made you live a lie?
Or is there anything of you that's true?
Tell me,
WHO ARE YOU?!

Well, it's a sculpted world,
so I know the concrete mix won't cry,
and now that the east's
part of a western coalition,
there wouldn't be a sunset in her sky,
and she won't care you're conundrums,
too disgusting to discern;
don't worry, she'd never learn!

But fickle Florence, she's just a disease
for which I have the required immunity,
so you've still got to deal with
the omnipresence of me...

I thought I could get no worse.

PARANOIA...

The funniest thing about my life (according to me, at least) would be how I always feel like I'm idle despite all the things that happen around me. I don't know if it's just me thinking that there's a lot happening, and 'around' actually implies things I'm part of, that I'm connected to, and anyway: I don't know if there's really a lot of activity about me or if the whole world is inactive along with me, but my point is that I happen to feel hopelessly, strangely inactive all the time. And I'm not dragging my inner self into this, I'm just talking about what's apparent, what's obvious. What the eye can perceive, and what often happens to escape mine.

There was a death. I'm waiting for the right mind to write about that, and that's a separate, self intriguing episode, and I don't want to merge that with something totally unconnected. Plus I think he deserves more respect than just be mentioned (which is why I don't want to drop a word about that in this post). Anyway, that subject is actually one contrary to this, sort of like an antonymous coexistence, a natural oxymoron, you know, like how something impacts you to the core, and how something just grazes past and there's actually not even a need for regrowth, there wasn't anything lost in that process and so you're still intact. But this impacting thing, well... It's like I'm being digested and churned and 'unsettled' and I don't want this to end, though. I'm just looking for the end-product, for feelings like these, they always end up being constructive (Unless you have cancer, in which case you know what happens, and I exclude 'emo's and goths out of this list because I don't think they'd get a life even if they die, so I guess you get my point).

I feel desperate to write a piece of lyric. In despair, actually and I've thought of a wild, wide variety of names from 'Sunday' (redirected from 'Sundae' as in 'Ice cream sundaes') to 'Cater some love' and 'Lydia' (again!) and well... No I actually just thought of 'Sunday' and the rest are lies. But I did think of some lines, which deserve a place in this 'Book of Rhymes' blog because they tend to tell you how I start to work on a thought, and I actually happen to give you the raw thought. And here it is.

"It's an understatement, to say I'm retrospecting,
'cause I've demented myself, to a seven year rewind;
I've sort of got her on my mind..."

I'm exceeding my limits. I don't know if I'm entitled to have said so much, because I'm not a person who often talks of works of fiction: It can't get anything more real than what I am now, and... I still haven't gotten over that 'feeling' that I haven't got an adjective to define with. It's been a long while, in fact it's longer than just long and the gap's not just mental it's physical actually: Devastatingly physical with mountains in the way. I don't mind trekking, if only I'd be taken in on the other side, and only that it's been too long and it's not like it was any thick before either. But the thing is, I'm reminded of things I hadn't bothered to think about so long, something I'd blame on my dearth of hope, but all of a sudden it's a blast and there's pieces all over, of characteristic smiles, loose fitting house T-Shirts, distinct skinniness, eyebrows that look the same or actually a 'face' that looks the same, not to mention the way lips align and heck I'm saying too much!

I need to stop.

ON MASCOTS...

Well, this post can be thought of as a knee-jerk reflex, you know. Sort of a thing that's natural when something unexpected happens. Like when you're walking in a crowd and the advancement's too slow to be called so, and everyone around you looks like they're just lolling about where they stand, and there's this airlessness around making you dizzy after something like a bad film or a really hopeless concert and there's this guy you watched it with, an acquaintance, and all you remember of him at that moment is that he was wearing a white T-Shirt, and knowing that you just pat the back of one resembling him and it's vague because you don't feel his build or any sort of familiarity. Instead it's a pair of straps that you feel underneath your palms and the dizziness makes you check again, and you almost think like you see a rhinoceros frown at you as the girl turns about, and you get startled. Yeah, startled!

That was a work of fiction, by the way. And that's not how I felt when I found that everyone who read 'Nearness of Far' asked for a clarification about the same four lines that I didn't actually give much of a thought about, as I wrote them: The Bridge, which, ironically, is supposed to be the most crucial and impacting part of a usual lyric. Here goes.

"I'm still mulling about for a mascot,
(would I find one in this century?)
Would I get help showing what I've got?
Or would she find something for me...?"

'Mascot'. Some sort of 'thing' or an 'emblem', something that helps fight the gap and helps relate in a Babel world. Something to counter the opposing forces, you know, create a crevice enough for affection to surface.

I could do with a good Blueberry Pie...


(With all credit to Wong Kar Wai and his visually poetic 'My Blueberry Nights'. Norah Jones, who sings with her eyes, Jude Law, who laughs with them, and of course... The ice-cream that tops this ravishing pie.)

PICTURE PERFECT...

(I'm not shaken by the prospect of this, but I still am very excited to tell you that this post is going to be the first peek into 'My Book of Rhymes')

(ABOVE: Personal interpretation of 'picture perfect' from an existing cartoon: A perfect picture is something where nothing is drawn, because there's nothing as perfect as nothingness itself)

"...and I don't need Another Kind of Green to know,
that I'm on the right side, with you..."

And that's not me. It's 'Another kind of green' by John Mayer, and though it could sound rather bland, and not unlike what every 'popstar' comes up with, a deeper look suggests that it's indeed the work of the poet that John is. I don't need to elucidate, and I certainly won't, for all that's required is a tiny little bit of knowing that you're dealing with something that's deeper than the surface. And these couple of verses are based on the concept of 'this grass is greener'. I don't think I need to say anything more than that. Here's a very similar bunch of lines, not in idea, but in structure.

"Will my peek out of my picture-frame
cease in a day or a million more?
Will the drops flood to form a flare, fit
to eat through the easel of my door?
Shall I see the strangeness that seems,
without my face in a bottomless jar?

Or is there anything more bizarre,
than the very nearness of this far...?"

Needless to say, these lines are entirely mine. I wouldn't clarify or pledge that this isn't a plagiarized version of Mayer's concept, because it deals with the concept of 'Picture Perfect' (The first four lines, to be precise) just like his dealt with the 'this grass is greener' thing, and I say that I wouldn't do that because I would look like a plagiarist only to one that's blind: My intention is that I'd rather shout at loud at deaf ears than be confronted with such people.

Anyway, as I said, it's about 'picture perfect' and it's not an exaggerated version of something I feel, I'd rather call it an underplay because words are always subtler than life and anything as subtle could only be an incomplete performance. So I'm not overdoing anything, or being a 'Tragic Hero' when the situation isn't actually that bad, because it's ironical. The situation is even worse, and I'm glad I have enough in me to stack standpoints together sufficient to paint a word picture. Ok, I'm meandering from what I'm coming to say, and as I want to end this post with this paragraph, I'd explain right away (to anyone who read 'Nearness of Far'). The picture frame is the window, and the easel's my door and I'm looking out at a world that I've painted: A world where I believe that things would fall in place, but in actuality they don't and it's always me that has to make a move, and not wait for the cogs to clunk on by themselves. 'Bottomless Jar' is a reference to the eternal Beatles' number 'Eleanor Rigby' and I only used the 'jar' concept in a way of my own. 'Nearness of this far', obviously, is a reference to how I'm unable to connect with someone who's so close, and by virtue of that inability, is so distant. That's about all of it.

AM I GOING GREEN?

Am I going green? I know it's not just me that's seeing green, and I wouldn't have picked the shades if they didn't look good on black, but I definitely can't be going green!!! I mean, yeah I do (I did) own a t shirt that said "It's easy being green" with a picture of a laughing frog on it (I could have added a snapshot if only my mom didn't take it to dust her vehicle so now, technically, green's gone brown and that ought to have wiped the smile off Mr. Frog's face!) but despite those minor coincidences, I need to make it clear (if only it isn't already) that I can't ever be green. I can't live without consuming at least an egg a day, and I guess I don't know the norms of being Vegan or Vegetarian, but I certainly wish humans hadn't gotten crazy enough to call something that could crack up and cluck as a vegetable! Plus, I sleep with my lights on, not because I'm a determined power-waster, but well... I daren't disclose the reason for I feel mortified :P

So yeah, I eat meat and I waste electricity, but I also ride a bicycle and that's not a conservation-driven motive, but an excuse to hide the fact that I can't ride a motorbike, and I walk long distances sometimes, which is because the route's scenic (I'm talking about city roads, btw, I'd only freak out if I walked through the forest or about a landscape!) and I could perhaps add a dozen (or more) arguments on either side, only that I don't want to, because I realize that I'm going nowhere, except towards accomplishing the feat of having posted for two consecutive days, which would mean I wasn't lying about the frequency factor, and hence it's like I can hold my head high among pointless bloggers, because I'd then be one of them, but with a difference.

So, my inference would be that I can't ever be green, and I didn't want my blog to be wholly green, which is why I worked to intersperse green not with 'Another kind of green' but with blue, violet, purple and a bold-red title of 'MY BOOK OF RHYMES'. And I step back and take a look at it now... Doesn't it look cool?

Well, at least I think so :P

P.S. Should I delete this post? Because I think it's going to be the only pointless bunch of words amidst a focussed lot.

P.S.S. Ah, as a second thought, I think not :)

UNDER CONSTRUCTION...

This isn't an error message for sure, because I know perfectly well what I'm doing, so this can't ever be a mistake. And I thought of maintaining an air of mystery by curtailing this post to the previous sentence and nothing more, but I painfully remembered that I don't have much of readers, let alone really 'avid' ones, and hence I thought I need to tell people who even accidentally stumble upon this blog what it's going to contain, and my answer to that self-posed question is: EVERYTHING.

Well, at least I'd show what's everything to me, and that's my poetry.

This isn't a 'poem blog'. I call it a Lyrical Album: The sort of thing that has words that get a Platinum label just because John Mayer writes music about them, and this hint of mine isn't veiled. I can't deny the similarities that exist, and neither would you if only you looked closer, and this blog is to say that I'm ready to give an insight if you're ready, and that doesn't mean I won't be ready all the same, it would just be pointless if I were and I would still be, for sometimes it's the pointlessness in living that makes a man stride on. After all, you can't look for reason in an already perfect life...

So what would you see? Words soldered to form lines, lines stacked to form verses and a bunch of the last to make a song without music. Hearty renditions would make the impact a tenfold more, but what can I do? "It's only words, and words are all I have, to take anyone's heart away" :D And I'd try to drop in a couple of pictures, only that this time I'd try my hand at bringing about what's around me and not googling every single thing I need. I could draw, sketch, paint and touch upon a whole lot of things to make it the best I can bring out of me, and yeah. I'm working on an album art, and 'working' here implies that it's getting constructed in my head, and the rest is just 'scribbling and bibbling', and you know where that comes from!

I've got two things written already: One called 'Nearness of far' and the other, 'Half Nelson' and I don't know if they can be called 'Lyrics' as such, or even 'poems' because they hover somewhere midway, and I've got a lot more in my head with 'Warcry' set to be my 'best ever'. I still haven't thought a word about it, though: It's just the 'idea' that's there, fully formed.

I leave you here, for the post says 'Under Construction' and I'd get back sometime soon if I get inspired enough to write something new, or sooner than soon if I write about what 'inspired' me (Oh yeah, I could get that bold, you know! :D)