Novembers from years past

Desire to write, nothing to write about. So, I did the next best thing – I put together posts from the last 5 years (with very minor edits). Little changes in 5 years, it turns out.
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It’s magical seeing your dreams for the future change shape in front of you.
Change shape, change colour.
How your Dream changes out of a flared gypsy skirt into a sombre suit and steps into a street bubbling over with a thousand other similar Dreams. Walking, running, smiling, crossing paths till it bumps into you.
“Oh my God, how you have changed!”
“Yes, but then…so have you!”
(November 2004)

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I tried to be a forest fire, when all I wanted to be was a Spark!
(November 2004)

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There was a phase in my life when I believed in anagrams. Actually believed in them. Anagrams as alternative tarot cards. As fortune cookies. As tea-leaves, soothsayers and the works. Oddly enough, I chose to ignore the biggest portent of eternal damnation: I’m a rat.

That’s right. I am Art is pure unadulterated BS. There is no art. Just rats. A whole army of rats pushing-racing-running-crawling-biting towards that distant cliff. The Pied Piper is on vacation. There’s no music. We are rats doing the only thing we were programmed to do. Or maybe there’s a Giant Mouse somewhere playing a strange game: Push the damn rats off the cliff. Push. Push. Faster. How brilliantly orgasmic!
Congratulations! New Record! High Score!

Some do it in style. Some cheat. Some go first. Some falter. But they all jump.

But I don’t want to be a rat. The veins in my head throb. I am not a rat. I am more. Throb. Thump. I am… I am art.
And Then.
Epiphany.
Silence.

Fate has read the jury’s verdict. All in favour of Rat. Applause.
I am sorry art. You never stood a chance. It’s just the circle of life. Circles of Lives. Stacked one after the other.

(November 2005)

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You too shall wake up someday, my Sleeping Beauty.
Till then, why not pull out some rabbits from your hat?

(November 2006)

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In the words of Günter Grass, to be human is to be curious, childlike, complex and immoral.

Having come to terms with my humanness, I am back.

(November 2007)

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Yes, I am back. Expect real posts soon! And time to do away with all this angst, no?

Some more poetry

Saudade (originally posted 5/7/2004)
You and I
Are we ever alone?
Inertia always creeps in,
plonks down
cross-legged between us
refuses to budge
and so do we
till a rude knock
by the hands of the clock
breaks the Reverie.

19 minutes 38 seconds (originally posted 6/6/2004)
For 19 minutes
and 38 seconds
I waited,
for what I wanted to hear.
All I got
was how many dragons
you slayed,
how many duels
you played.
A day of your life.

For 19 minutes
and 38 seconds
I lived and I died
I smiled and I cried.
Tell me
did it rain
where you live?

(Yes, yes, I know that slayed is not a word. Poetic license, anyone?)

Poetry

I have been trying to get back to writing poetry for a while, with no success. Sifting through the archives of my old blog, I found some half-decent verse. Rhyme is definitely not my true calling, but I am a persistent suitor. Here’s the first of many reposts, and an apt one too – a summary of my approach to writing verse, originally posted on 1/1/2004

—
My schizophrenic sentences
think
they are parts of poems
and cut themselves up.
Mutilated, they
live up to their delusions.