Friday, February 20, 2015

Yagni Payal

I saw him just beyond my line of sight, just beyond my threshold of knowing, just beyond. He held a shrunk thought. I saw him there, standing, just beyond and smiling a smile beyond the curves of my lips. It was as if he had just crushed his burning cigar of impatience, strewing its ashes towards unknown coordinates of my being, a renegade.

'Marizzta, dont make it any more difficult than it is, you said you would move out by Tuesday'...Dates, dates, dates can be sweet. Dates, can qualify city streets and be sweet. Dates, I hate. Dates. Timelines and specifics, juggle ideologies into sweet trivia of zipcode specificity. Stop giving me numbers, unless they reek of nothingness. Dated unknowns.

You cant garnish everything with holy basil to make it special. Eventually it has to pass the smell test.

Authenticity is now a conscious act of breaking down hybrids into their lowest common multiple. While normalcy curls up like a cat in your lap, your annotated indifference is a burden you will have to carry through ages. 

I think there is this great conspiracy theory. I checked the time clock on my phone, my laptop, my microwave and my watch...and they all matched. Who are you kidding? 

A strand of hair hangs off a lamp shade, it is a perfect culmination of thought and movement, it holds its stand, it sways its extremities gently, it is rooted at a perfectly unwavering co-ordinate, waxing and waning just subtly enough, to play with your line of sight. Obvious and disappearing. Much like the frailty of life mocking the sinewy grasp of predictability or vice versa.

He made me laugh and I caught my reflection fleetingly, only I had just missed it as I laughed. I always knew paragliding within your brain is a conscious step within each unconscious breath.

'case of urban proof of service or service of proof'

Borders of eggshells. We tread broken daily, burnt in half baked truths, symphonies of hurt and tell tale theories, what is the point of it all? Scrambled words need endless sheep dogs. Where is the pagan proof of simplicity? If symbolism rules, do you see my fingers? A lion in the manger, feeds my self interest. Self correction is a lazy coincidence of desire and inaction. When your tectonic plates move, mine hold in resistance, in a misunderstood extramarital affair. Surface touches only circle the navel concentric. It is existential foreplay, needing no approvals within your four corners.I succumb to premature drowning. I smile and let it, happen.

I was obvious. In my semi formal ways. A hint. Of humanity. Of sensuality. Of those that fled senses of comprehension. I existed. As that anomaly between formality and exuberance. I wasn't an echo, a hymn, or a blur of the night. An inspiration of the dead, a thread of embroidery, a blank wall. There is a sense of untouchability. An underlying sacredness, of an interior sanctum of perversions. Of loneliness. Of a possible mate. Of a possible completion.....yes, I existed. In a memory lapse of a widowed , or the regret of an absurdly, I existed. Only as a proper noun. Unpronounceable, if so.

No, I do not watch the news. I do not apologize often. I do not wonder about trends and manifestos. I do not creep up like phallic shadows. I do not bend my own bitter business. I do not tame other people's ghosts. I do not soil within the swamps of human heart. I do not crumple paper and recycle minds. I do not curl my temper into cotton candy. I do not curb my love into another snowball effect. I do not weave my thoughts on elaborate looms of domino. It's complicated, these layers, like smooth eggnog over brandy. You may have met me, and missed me totally. Perhaps I got off the elevator at the wrong floor and laughed. It is always the wrong floor. While you knew which door to face. Or perhaps you wondered why my looks made me exotica. It didn't. But you wore a leopard print dress with a long slit splitting personalities. Insidious. Wicked. I watched you get off. I watched you, dissipate, like a black skirt of the alleys. A hint of fantasy.

If I have to talk about the human condition, the philosophy of thoughts or rationale, or why some are allergic to cats and peanuts, I must first mystify with redundancy. For there is magic of illusion and the magic of magic minus theorem of logic plus one. And if reality was only to be quantified in pinches, it would reduce minimalism to its minions. But I am much more. I am not my fashion or earrings, or a flash of legs or a sparkle of eyes, I am not my smile or my senile. I am more, much more, sometimes measured in tears, sometimes in smiles..tiny introductions..

"recounting Diderots fallacy of the ephemeral"

What time is it now?
What time since you left with my timekeeper, my grandmother's sand...
since they deemed loneliness as some strange contrived persecution of self..
or since the pollen from the sun reduced to dust or the sad graffiti of our crawl.
My lone guitar thumps a rhythm of a gasping heart, a lost child in the woods of despair...
If these lungs held freedom, where would they end? What would they envelope? Precipitate?
Even a cage breathes within a corsetry of death and the blowing off of an afternoon candle....
Oh sing me the poor girls song, of fugitive dreams and lost earrings,
a fools cry echoing within white seashells,
or simply yet...
shatter me like porcelain rage,
….swaddling your time,
for what is time, now
what is time nowhere?

So I started reading Alan Watts last night at bed and boy (9) says 'mama read it out loud'. So I do, and after 10 pages, I tell him 'tomorrow, let's sleep now, did you like it?' And to my surprise the kid says 'yes, I do like it'..

No comments:

Post a Comment