CLOUDBURST

Wise misgivings

"Never doubt the will of Those you cannot see but feel....

In the War of the Worlds.........you battle alone!" Alexander Pope

Midnight Summer Fest, Helsinki... June 21

Anatomy of Fun

Travel to two countries in 24 hours.

Write stories for a third.

Script narratives for a concoction of the above.

Design a recital to commemorate theme.

Steal inspiration from unopened travel bags, stray conversations, dark alleys, rain and sweet fish.

All constructs of imagination...........let the concrete stray from architects board.

Smile and hit the bar.

Dance, drink, dazzle a doe-eyed grin, "Shit! My life is so boring. Tell me about you."

All in a hope to have just a little bit o' fun!

"Shit! my life is fun. Miss you, but don't wanna come home. Not just yet," connecting back home.

The Devil Redeemed ?

Something about me… it takes a lot to freak out someone like me. I’m not a runaway carnivale entertainer with a genetic anomaly. I don’t have a disturbed past, nothing extraordinarily gothic atleast. Neither do I hone psychic skills. The pentacle has been a fascination as a kid, but spirits have always eluded at ouija board sessions, candle lit moonless nights, and even haunted houses we raided in search of a fable. Never sensed alternate vibes or paranormal activity lurking around the corner.

Feared…oh yes! Absolutely. The possibility of an adventure. The excitation of a supernatural experience. The exhilaration of feeling something inhumane, something immortal, something demonic. Fed on books, delved into philosophies, let notes of death pour from speakers, painted my roof black, blacked out all light, propelled into the chasm of pagan worship, sketched the dark …….wanted so badly to believe. But St. Lucifer wanted nothing to do with me. Hades Chariot would never carry me to portals of fire and glory. I would never be Satan’s spawn. I never really wanted to be the Dark Angel. Wanted nothing much… just few stories to narrate of my own. Some freak shows of my own to show.

Not only did I never encounter the dark, but in time my obsession drew the fear out. And when the fear fled, so did expression. It’s strange, but whenever I sat down to weave words, they poured out of pain and misery. Most ironic the fact that the grief was never mine. Deliberately pierced wounds to self to feel forlorn and let the ink flow free onto paper. But when grief was real….. ink froze, pen broke, paper tore and fingers warped.

Friends have found the light in me always. Spent hours emptying souls and healing wounds. Have wept with them, wallowed in their grief, felt those twangs of pain running through the warmth of those tight embraces. Felt paralysed and enraged with despair. But that pain was never mine.

Self grief has been locked in abysmal Loch-ness. Release has never occurred. Strangest part is………….can’t make out if its deliberate or accidental.

Have chased darkness too long. An uncle once made a movie romancing the black. Self imposed the blackness around to feel. Inspired perfection? Yes he did! Won acclaim? Yes he did! But pain of self………….no, never, no story there…. “When pain is not subjective, its beautiful. But when you live it, its ugly,” he told me and that time I knew what he was saying.

I’m in a nation where pain is pleasure. Misery is enjoyable and death an orgasmic release of passion. Have heard stories, documented events, disgusted at cults and rituals deemed to be blasphemy! (pardon the 14 years of Convent education).

At times faith does assume mystical proportions. A sudden revelation struck while interviewing a beautiful eunuch at a congregational ceremony ……..maybe………probably…………crazily………possibly……….Life is not supposed to be dark after all! I don’t belong to this creed.

Could it be?

Winter Tales

This tenement where I live is like a three winged star and when I sit on my desk and look outside, to my left I can see the adjacent wing at 120°. And there are windows. All shut. There are curtains – green, blue and maroon. There is a plant at one window. Milk cartons at another (poor students’ way of refrigerating). Black sneakers hanging outside another. A table lamp on another. I have lived behind shut windows for days now. Watching the seasons change everyday and Auroras break..

Winter by night unfolding life in the warmth of brick walls. Spring by morning. The neighbouring supermarket is selling saplings and barbecue grills. In the afternoon flying kids chase pigeons at the town square. Colourful summer wear is on display on the shop-windows.. And now as I look at the shut windows around, for the first time I wonder about lives and life-stories contained behind them. From the remote corners of the world, and memory. Like myself.

Right here – Batiment E, Chambre 335, I have delineated forgotten tales to curious ears and made love with love itself.

What must be going on behind these dozen odd windows? Do longing tears fall on lonesome pillows? Do loving lips find lovable allies? Is art being courted somewhere? Is an interesting fable being swept out? Are awaiting dinners getting cold? Are grateful prayers being sent out?Who waters that plant? Who adds that milk to their coffee? Just whose are those shoes? When did you wear them last? And where did you go? Did you then smile at the kid on the street? Do you remember what your mother told you when you went to places like those with her? Do you have something to say? Or a smile to exchange? Or someplace hidden behind these flowery trees where you would want to take me to? Do you? If you opened your window, you’d see me writing about you. If only you’d let the winter out.

A reflection

The Pagan Paradise . . . my new home

The land where Auroras Break and Death sings. . .