REPLAY

“Naked?”

“I swear, it’s never happened before.”

It was pointless to have made that point, for neither was the girl in question his daughter, nor was she one from a shrink, familiarity ruled out in this respect. The one in control was being excessively involved, a sign of interest than perversion, while the one out of it all looked eager, although uncertain, about telling this man everything that crossed his mind at that point of time.

“Never before?” the tone was disbelieving.

“Of course not!” he said. “But yes, and no… not naked”, he added at the sight of raised eyebrows.

“Not naked…”

“Not naked.”

He could have won cases if the shake of one’s head was counted as circumstantial evidence, and he replicated the same in this post-hypnotic scenario.

“Walls, walks, schoolrooms, places I have no clue about…”

“Have you seen her before?” he enquired, and on receiving a scoff, said “Well, you know what-”

“You’re kidding me.”

He stroked his brow. “You’ve got to open-”

“She’s the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen”, he confirmed. “And that’s not just a figure of speech.”

He made a circle around him, tracing with feet than fingers, and that prompted the one in the easy-chair to come up with something that sounded sensible enough to him, which really wasn’t too big a thing.

“You have a daughter?”

“I have a wife”, he said.

“I’ve never thought I’d feel like this”, he began, “and it’s not like I haven’t felt this before, it’s just… a novelty that’s strange, you know. Ancient Déjà vu, something like that”, he looked at him.

“I’m not crashing your party”, he clarified. “Take me through dessert.”

He smiled, cringing his eyes because he remembered Will Hunting prick Sean Maguire with a statement that went like, ‘You talk too much for one, for heaven’s sake’ and used that as a sort of reflex arc to get himself off the chair with his back to the man, preparing for the poetic discourse to come.

“I’ve never felt this… this infatuated”, he said. “I mean… I think this is not good and that scares me, you know, it’s like… I was what I ought to be to her and now I’d probably be something else and yeah, ‘Déjà vu’!” He squeezed the root of nose. “Just… just look at my hands, man.”

The mind-man clicked his tongue seeing it tremble and twitch beyond normalcy.

“What do you want to do about it?”

“Well…” he shrugged, smiling.

“Yeah”, he acknowledged. “But still, do you think-”

“I don’t know”, the admittance was solemn with weight of heart. “Hope she does.”

MISERY

I'm aware it's a little more 'Half Nelson' than I intended it to be, and a lot of previous lines too, yeah. But still, it's kind of a break-through. I'm proud of it like I'm proud of everything I've given birth to, and subsequently disowned.

When have I rejoiced

in the vitality of life

to know for a fact

that I haven’t died?

When would this cold

help rid me some flesh

so I can feel to the bone,

unsheathed from the comb?

When would my night

be spent in the day,

with the time I’m awake

and things done would stay?

The answer to lies

in moments of truth,

with poison in mind

lies sweetness construed?

Walking to wind up

with circles of thought,

and helical advancements

in safety be brought…

And an alternate being

would wake up to her,

and lie without shame

and smile from the dirt.

'Little Rhymes' sees an addition after quite a while, and so does my poetry folder. Felt like Dan Dunne finally wrote his novel, but I know I just scraped half a page. 'To you', as usual.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART THREE

This has by far been the most exciting part of the book, which, according to me, has pretty much reached its end, and it’s like the line has ended and we’re just waiting for the full-stop. I personally think it would be criminal on the part of the author to give Grushenka Svetov another change of a heart that she has found in her only now, in which context I’d like to say that Dostoevsky has indeed swung things to ‘my’ favour. The bloodiest of battles have been fought over women, and it’s undeniable that a man can derive no other point in life except one revolving around the woman of his dreams or of his reality, or power and control over an inanimate piece of land, which I think is less justified than fighting for the covet of as tangible (to intangible proportions) a being as the feminine. Dmitry Karamazov, the silent participant, had won this battle that he didn’t even fight in, but which incidentally proves to incriminate him before the eyes of the apparent judicial system. The process would of course be interesting to intimidating extents, but the outcome matters not for the road ahead has been decided.

This is precisely the point that my admiration for both ‘The Brothers Karamazov’ and its author Fyodor Dostoevsky peaked, the point where the motive behind the entire plot came forth and stared at me in the face. The point where Dmitry admits and elucidates that he would gladly go to prison, the liberated soul that he is recently found to be, given that the man he thought he had killed had surprisingly survived and had even recovered enough to testify against him, and that he would do the same because although he wasn’t guilty of his father’s murder, he was indeed guilty of planning it and of ‘almost executing’ it before he was stopped by ‘divine intervention’ as he puts it (although not exactly in these words). That had been what I had stressed in my previous post, where I said that the criminal in this case (not yet identified) has lesser crime to his credit than Dmitry (although his heart edges towards the righteous side now) who, with the whole of his heart, had intended to bring about the death of his father, an Oedipal exclusion for the sake of his love and hence, he, burdened with a higher amount of guilt, has to face punishment for ‘cleansing his soul’. The part ends with Dmitry leaving for prison, not without twists though, and with Grushenka assuring him with utmost honesty that her journey ahead would forever include being by his side.

This has been the only part (of the three that I’ve done) where I felt absolute glee when coming out. And although it could look to be a complete depiction of romance and spite, it also has substantial parts played by the younger brothers Alexei (the dialogue with Grushenka) and Ivan (by kindly stepping out of the picture for the time being). Yet, nothing could possibly overshadow the happiness felt when I read that “Mitya’s kiss tore her lips” and it was a gigantic haul of joy, climactic with its pleasure, and I kind of figured that from then, even if he were ‘to be executed’, he would die a happy man and I guess that pretty much, so would I (‘die’ in my case refers to ‘closing the book’). Yes, there’s still an ample amount of story coming, an open murder investigation whose prospect could incite authors to write volumes, in which case I’m glad that Dostoevsky kept aside merely a quarter of his novel to it, possibly even lesser considering there are other more important affairs.

Fyodor Karamazov, either way, would never rest in peace. Not when he had been killed by the ‘devil himself’.

A LITTLE LESS CONVERSATION

Elvis Presley was a man, head, hat and hairy hands. Men woo women, don’t understand. There’s lesser to her than interpreted, extrapolation makes her worse. Smoking is respiratory, lipstick isn’t finesse. Pretty doesn’t mean blonde, dark hair isn’t dull. To drink isn’t to defeat, lack of conscience is a memory loss. Fountains are potable, and I’m a man.

“Twenty fifth”, she smiled, looking distant. “Yours?”

“Seventy nine”, she replied, indifferently.

“Minty?”

“Orange”, she shook her head. “I doubt if he stood your queue.”

“Back-packer”, she tried recollecting. “Lopsided glasses, po-”

“-ked my eye taking it off”, she turned to her, awestruck. 

“Last-moment nibble!”

“Heck, I denied payment”, they said together.

Moments of disbelief and silence, repentance and a touch of envy.

“How’s your mother?”

“Good”, she nodded.

“Out of hospital?”

“Hardly”, she said. “All boxes taken, none to spare.”

“Oh?” she looked querulously. “Oh!”

“Blocks”, she shrugged. “Not to mention cholesterol.”

“Could use some, though”, she said, squeezing skinny sides.

“I’d sell if I could”, she shrugged again. “Or pro bono.”

“Don’t you start there...”

“I hate them too”, she agreed. “Can’t beat Hitchcock.”

She hummed ‘Vertigo’ only to halt instantly. She caught her eye, and she caught hers. Moment after the next had them walk again.

“Catchy tunes…”

“Vices”, she flared up. “We understand, you buy!”

“I download”, she clarified. “Doesn’t make me better, though.”

“I see right through.”

“Die to know what’s there”, she said. “Knowledge is death.”

“Clarity is a single life”, she complied. “Lesbian, if lucky.”

They kissed, a pat on the (lower) back and a stroke of hair as additives. Both smiled, corrected falling handbags and wiped the rain off their faces.

“So…” she cleared her throat. “You buried-”

“She’s burning hers.”

“Oh?” re-creation, not recap. “Oh!”

“Indoors”, she walked on. “Fire without smoke.”

“Like one?” she extended a roll.

“Burn to get a taste of it”, she cringed. “Depresses me.”

“There’s my bus”, she pointed, expectantly.

“I fly, girl…”

They kissed again, this time deeper than before. Romanticism is nihilistic, cameras lie and obscenity, as we all must know by now, is ‘point of view’.

TVC - ARTWORK

My second effort with a pencil and Picasa (after the ever-visionary 'Warcry'). A sort of unofficial poster for 'The Vagrant Chronicles', something that's undercooked to even say it's half-baked. Would surely make the cake some day.

THE VAGRANT CHRONICLES - INTRODUCTION

Twin suns – a trio of sorts of which one doesn’t shine. Desert storms aren’t called what they’re called if not felt to be so, a fever’s a fever only if normal lies below. The same in the case of my Vagrant, who most certainly isn’t one as long as he calls this world his home, but I don’t think ‘they’ would care to destroy it to make him one, like I believe he still wouldn’t mind staying the way he is, with material existence to back his scoop.

“You’re one of them Rain Men.”

“More of the sun”, his guest replied. “Water’s from under the-”

“Hey, I live here too, remember?” our Vagrant scoffed. “More than you, maybe.”

“Yeah… more than me”, he responded, distantly. “You can stop here.”

“Right.”

The man got down, adjusted his clothes (which isn’t a cocktail dress is all we need to know), paid for the trip and turned to enter the place where he raked his grass.

“Hey Doc.”

“Junior Assistant in Research”, he snubbed him with a smile. “Yeah?”

“What they’re saying about our Nero…”, he began. “He’s not-”

“Afraid he is”, the JAR responded.

“What happens then?”

“Well…”, he scratched his nose. “We’ve still got his girl, she’d mother us.” He turned to the gate again. “Daddy hung around a while, I’d bless him.”

“Yeah”, he glanced at his steering wheel. “Well, you have a good day then.”

“You too”, the response came from a distance.

Cabs do retrace, the road’s not always ‘ahead’. Time could make this life helical, but space gives scope for reverse, rewind and fast-forward and so does our Vagrant’s music system. He picked a station that played something he hadn’t listened to before (familiarity triggers resonance), sipped his cola and drove to see Nero set, with Tara tall at noon, lighting this double-day they were having.

He vowed to not miss the sight ever, from then.

*‘The Vagrant Chronicles’ is an individual attempt by me, aimed to commemorate the Zeroth anniversary of a solar demise.

KARAMAZOV EFFECTS - PART TWO

Half done and I’ve this feeling that I can considerably comment on the plot in itself, having seen pretty much of its development, and hence I’d go through a short sketch on what’s happened until now, and a few ploys and eccentricities I’ve noticed (as far as I could) here and there in this novel that is so hailed to be a classic. The murder could happen any moment, or maybe it has already happened (for crying out loud!) and having read Dostoevsky before, I can quite guess the convict in this case, because as illustrated in his ‘Crime and Punishment’, Dostoevsky bases ethics on conviction, stressing the thought of the crime to be punished rather than the crime in itself, for the guilt afterward is what destroys a person most, and that is what the punishment actually is. Not a life-sentence in Siberia or hard labour, which is essential in compliance to law, a necessity but not the authority in itself. Dostoevsky deems one’s conscience to be the highest law, for it happens to be the only fathomable place where one can argue about the existence of God, the so-called deciding factor on sin, retribution and pardon.

The brothers are well established as they are supposed to be, and they have individually interacted with each other at war or words, not to mention the father, Fyodor Karamazov. One of the women in the plot, Katerina Ivanovna, along with the child Lise are substantially established too, anecdotally and in form of second-person thoughts. Lise could be all that I had hoped for in this story, and as I had established in my previous article (part one) the bond between her and Alexei Karamazov is refreshing, like romance as romance has to be, with love for the sake of the same. Katerina is shown in good light too, not as the delicate damsel in distress, but as a strong woman who can love and knows honour, as presented in the sequences with and without her active participation. But what appeared queer to me at this level is the shortage of anecdotes for the other maiden, the alleged ‘Femme Fatale’ Grushenka, who I saw too less of, a lone scene amidst the excessive third-person references, which led me to think that the author was deliberating it. It’s like we’re supposed to get misled by what everyone has to say about her because that’s exactly where they are: misled. There could be a subsequent statement (yet to come) that Grushenka is not at all her dubiously-alleged self, but just one who could easily be misunderstood, or there could be one to empower the current line of thought with the turn of events to come. I can only say that I will have to read to know of this little eccentricity.

This was a boring part on many levels, by the way. Maybe one has to embrace theology to discard it, like knowing what’s in store to say you don’t want it, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to like the whole biblical allusions, although it was a masterstroke (through Ivan, the second brother) to side with the son of God to oppose the Church and its cardinals, who Dostoevsky presents to be some sort of realists (which came about to be a surprise to me) in their ‘belief’. Freedom being scarier than dependence is a thought I’ve had from long and it sort of felt empowering to see it coming from a place elsewhere. Also comforting was this idea that freedom is what people deserve although to be led is secure; suggests that I’m not entirely wasted at this point of time although I could brand myself to undoubtedly be. There’s also the teachings of the elder Zosima, everything he had to say said in a last shot, which I couldn’t help but think was a little excessive. Conflicting ideas are pretty elaborate, but I guess that’s how a classic rolls, with authors determined to waste their breath to set the wind up. Pretty agreeable too.

Writing takes the mind away from the book. I don’t know when I’d read again, but I’m sure that this time it’d be quicker.

NULL.

A void could be a phase, but what’s the specification for one that’s exclusive absence of intelligence and a wipe-out on self confidence? I didn’t have much to choose from, the title is mandatory, just suggestive and I like it that way because it at least tells me that I’m not pretending to be any more aware of it, I’m not pretending to master it any more than I have; not pretending to know anything I don’t know.

I remember that I introduced a lot of new people to my blog the last few days. It’s like I wanted it on my list of credentials, like it’s the only thing I have that I can count on, the last straw of stuff or something, and it’s like I left everything behind on the 31st of May, the last day I felt something work inside my head. It’s June the 4th today and I’ve this acclaimed (to self, at least) attitude of finding a good day to resolve all the time, except that they’re strangely always in the future. Not a ‘tomorrow’ kind either, I always give a span, a space. 29th saw the 1st, and the 2nd saw the 4th and I didn’t nail it today either. And I still don’t know if I gave this a thought: If I decided to postpone postponing yet and start to think of things today.

Maybe I have. I just watched ‘Remember the Titans’.

My blog is only as cool as I am, and what I am is what I am, no point in seeing myself in the past tense when I’ve still got to deal with things, I guess. It’s a surge, definitely, a high-ride on something that might not even be part of me, but could be attributed to the four spoons of sugar I had in my tea today (I drink it without milk, with lemon), not to mention a sprinkle of ‘Sugar-free’ too. Or the ‘sequel’ called ‘Duo’ which unbelievably escaped my head somehow and made me proud, in sandal on black. Maybe it’s just a swinging phase, perhaps not even a true, but I don’t think I care.

I’ve not been the one for reasons, or knowledge of the same. Because I’ve always believed that reasons are self-pacifying, and why would I want to cool down when the intention is to burn? Told myself I’d rather sweat it out. Hey, at least I’m known for that.

DUO

They’re twins, which means you’ve got to take for granted that they’re exactly, unimaginably identical, have the same metabolism (more or less), same fitness levels, identical workout programs, same stamina, sustenance, the same number of muscles in the same configuration, and the same amount of bones of course. Spouses (girlfriends included) are numb to individual scents, character in general and penis sizes. One of them could have bigger feet, but that wouldn’t stop the other from wearing the same pair of shoes (or an identical pair if required, equally wrinkled, equally smooth).

A higher count doesn’t imply a sequel, and it’s past midnight.

“One hour”, he said pointedly.

“Lydia-”

“Lydia?”

He stopped, dead. “Don’t tell me-”

“It’s Friday.”

Twin One stood outside the park which Twin two had to cut across (to save time). Walk transfer from green to grey, footsteps muffled by the motorway. Secrecy doesn’t imply quiet, for not all the loudness is heard. Except mutually, of course.

“She was surprised.”

“I said I had work.”

“No wonder then-”

Two men identical in all aspects, but it’s not a paparazzi world to stand up and make proofs. And they just walked along.

“And yeah”, Twin One said, hands in pockets, “Tara-”

“I’ll deal with it”, came the response, although grave.

“You know I’ll miss her too”, he replied. “And not to mention Her-”

“-quirk in colour-tones?”

“-bie Hancock.”

Curious look on the face, unfettered look to the ground observed.

“What made your day?”

“Ammo hunt”, he replied. “Wild goose chase, what made yours?”

“Breaking and Entering, busted stuff, frenzies”, he sulked. “Got it all?”

He nodded. “Loudest yet: My place.”

“You mean my place?”

They paused for a while, switching positions. “Yeah, your place.”

“Good”, they said together, looking down.

Distant looks don’t always suggest pensive thought. Face-to-face could sometimes mean unconscious spontaneity.

“The organization...”

“The thrill...”

“Life’s good”, he said and looked at his brother. “You’re good.”

“No”, came the reply. “We’re good.”

Roads diverged, both taken. ‘He’ took the one ‘he’ took before, and ‘he’ took the one which ‘he’ came from, pats on the back past.

“Mind the sniffer!” he shouted. “We smell.”

“And Suzanna!” he shouted back, stopping. “Smells good!”

He smiled, he smiled, and they both left. One to the right, and one to the left of his left.