GET OUTTING

THE ART OF GET OUTTING.

She asked me to get out and I get-outted. *Sigh* Ten years of memories. I get outted leaving all of them behind with a friendship band that declared 'US' special. All it took was a get out. Not the words I was looking for. But heck I get outted. Hope your happy bitch.

SUMMER NIGHT

SUMMER NIGHT.


The summer night is warm, stiflingly so. There's more than the summer that's causing the heat. It was there for so long, but never so strong. I pull off all my clothes and sit in front of the mirror looking at it. How the sun burnt skin stood out starkly on the otherwise yellow peel. The rises, the curves, the darkness that came in so slowly, I never noticed it. I stand naked, not judging, not loving, not hating. Just watching. I run a finger on the length of my neck and I know I need him to see me like this. To judge me. I can still feel his fingers somewhere on my shirt. His deep river voice accompanied by the stale smoke smell. An accident. Sweet one, I wanted to feel it again. Here. I run a finger on my breast and feel it go hard. It hadn't happened in a long time- not after I stopped swimming in winter- never by the thought of a man. I wonder what he would think of it. Maybe he would give me the stupid-kid laugh or, or, or…I don't know. I don't want to know. This gets too infatuated-teenage-girl for me, so I climb onto the windowsill still naked, half hoping someone would see me. There's a man staring from the next building. I look in that direction and raise my hand. He shuts the window and turns off the lights. I laugh but stop midway, someone once told waking up to madness was his greatest fear, that he had seen his schizophrenic father do that and he was half-sure schizophrenia is hereditary. I thought it was foolish then, now, it gave me Goosebumps. A lady once told me madness was behind a thin line and you could see it but never find a difference till you saw someone on the other side. My nose feels sticky so I wipe it to see a drop of sticky blood- a warning that I need to put on something. I wipe it away and have a glass of water. Still thinking of the deep river fantasy, I lie dressed, waiting for a sunrise or sleep. Whichever comes first.

ONLY A LITTLE MORE TO GO

SHOOT. Am not too good with promises. Damn me. Guess I am back. Shoot. :) Isnt even a week!



ONLY A LITTLE MORE TO GO.

Colours. Yellow, green, violent pink,
And then black, white, and infinite grey,
Peer into the shadows,
A flicker of a movement,
If you stare, she'll slip away.
The rain's here and so is she,
Footsteps muffled by the dark green moss growing underneath.
And now it snows,
She strides free under the camouflage,
No, don't go close, she abides in tender flesh.
Stabbing slowly in the back.
Pulling you down, hollow, hollow black.
A beauty in her own way,
Waxy, pale, marble smooth.
Slow eater. Thoroughly, without pauses.
Smirks licking her fingers clean,
Blood smeared on her pursed lips.
She doesn't scream-a silent soul,
Knitting blue-grey into the happy colours.
On her maternal chest I wail,
Her indifference pleasing, almost amorous.
Devoid of guns and two-edged swords,
Only the strength to cut open defences.
Hush, Don't moan, there's only a little more left to go.

HIATUS

HIATUS


Aiight folks. I lost my audience as saby has been pointing out. Plus, I am bored with blogs. I'll be around (not that, THAT matters to anybody) but wont be writing here for a while. Will wait and see till sudden bursts of creativity flows and if it isnt, well boom! De.vile sets fire to her blog.

THEY DID NOTHING WHEN THE LIGHT HIT THEM

Wasting time some Mondays ago I came upon a lot of photography articles. I didn't give a shit then, I still don't. But it reminded me of this article I had read someplace. This is about a photographer who used to take pictures of famine and flood struck people. He did it for money, for fame and for the thing called "job satisfaction". Makes one wonder if it's the sight of half-alive half-dead people or is it the fact that misery grows on one side of the earth when the other end sits on their asses and complains how the meat is not tender enough that gives him satisfaction. But that's not the story. It goes something like this. So this guy, call him Dick, goes around clicking all this misery and he has won a lot of prestigious awards for his 'work' towards 'awareness' of all that ugliness. And so, once he goes to this place somewhere in Somalia which is struck by a massive famine and here he starts clicking. On his way from one village to another, he sees a girl about 10 years of age trying to ward off the vulture (or some bird of prey) from biting into her. And she is all skin and bones. No clothes, no food. Only hunger, dirt and fear. Dick knows he's hit gold so he starts clicking right away. And then he moves on.

Now, Dicks back in his country, think its England, (owing to their funny way of laughing in the face of everybody's misery including their own.) where he gets his pictures on an exhibition and he is sure like every other time all those rich, uptight people with their noses up in the air would come and watch in awe his pictures and give him some award for his 'awareness' spreading activity.

All is roses till they get to the picture of the kid. Now, if you were to consider the light, the position and all that shit that photographers take into consideration, the picture was next to perfection. But, the people weren't thinking of that, they were thinking of the picture that was taken. They were all wondering if he let the vulture kill the kid. He said no, he had taken her to a nearby village. "That's it?" they asked, "Did you make sure she got something to eat?" Did you make sure she got into safe hands and not in the midst of flesh-eating humans?" (I mean sure you can say 'hell no, I cant even think of it', but come on, it was a famine that struck, if you have nothing to eat, wouldn't a little flesh jutting proudly out of a skinny body get you salivating?) And Mr. Dick was now in a muddle. Forget awards and recognition for his ground-breaking portrayal of cruel death, he got condemned. He lost all his work, all his money and the friends he had made when times were better. They ignored him, despised him, anybody who knew of what he had done absolutely made no effort in hiding their hatred towards him. I mean all this time he had done all kinds of photographs-dead, dying, hunger-ridden, a dozen people groping on a piece of bread, but who had known that he would hit the ceiling with this? Maybe that's what they meant by not knowing the limit till you walk right into it. Finally Dick, who was somewhere around 35, died of drug overdose in his apartment to be found 2 days later.

No one knew if Dick had killed himself or if it was unknowingly and no one cared. They thought he deserved more pain than that was inflicted on him. But then look at this way. What if the dying girl had gotten into good hands? What if her parents were in that village or some relatives or some good people who would adopt her? If that had happened, she would be 12 years now, probably getting education, no longer hungry and had found someone to love her, grateful to that white man who led her to this joy. And what if it did happen that way? What did Dick get for that? Forget that, what about the condemners? Were they better off than this guy who had at least put himself through the trouble of saving her from the vultures. Who's better? Who's worst? Who cares?


P.S. Hey mate jay, it's ok. Maybe takes time. But at least you know you loved her enough.

RAMBLING

There are gaps and holes. Vacuum that sucks nothing but throws out aloud. Like the little kid who had too much to eat. Throwing up with a lot of noise. Screaming, crying, whining to make it stop. And you just stand back and let it throw it all out. Pat on its back…its OK love. Vacuum vomiting out a lot of memories that have no right to come out. A walky-talky vacuum that doesn’t walk (but follows, sliding, moaning, “Where are you going to go?”) that doesn’t talk (only vomits memories). I found a vacuum shaped just for me. But I don’t need it. I try to move without footsteps, just a single line, and a faint memory in the head of those who will bother. Loved when present, forgotten once gone. Wiping away, but the hole tells me, there is ABSOLUTELY no way. I will roam around here, sliding to people who will wonder where you are, sliding to those who try to hate you…whatchu gonna do? Where you gonna run? She flew with a packet of cigarettes and a bottle of rum. Ha-ha. The vacuum irritates. I push it away. I want to be born again, a saint maybe, a nun? Hmm. Born again. Bore-nagen. A fat dark Chinese man with a drooping moustache. I want to be a fat Chinese man with a dropping moustache, who eats cockroaches and eyes the woman in the nearby room. A girl really. I run a finger on my stomach, not lovingly, just like that. The belly of a fat Chinese man is already here. But the face is too dead. The twin took away a part of the life, as a revenge of letting me live and dying herself. A half-dead part of an egg who wants to be a fat Chinese man. God bless her.


ALL BECAUSE OF ARUNDHATHI ROY’S ‘GOD OF SMALL THINGS’. READ IT IF YOU THOUGHT THIS WAS INTERESTING OR FUNNY. TRUST ME IT’S GOOD. YOU WILL LOVE IT IF YOU CAN GET YOURSELF TO BOTHER COMING TO THIS BLOG. IT’S ONLY BETTER.