The Adventures of Goopy and Bagha (1968) - Ghost Dance Sequence

Thought I'd mark the end of my indecision with this.

Once
in
every
thousand
years
a
fool
like
me
is
born.

Why do you, you fool, continue harming your own luminance? I would laugh and then sleep contentedly had I not loved you.


Dancing under peas,
Killing time while watching
Freezes my aversion of rhyme.

Rumi lies waiting for me.
Expectantly I look out
My four-paned window

A willing receptacle violins
Find in me
Chasing away ghosts across pages.


(My tribute to Nabokov, today.)

Bit~ter la-la-laughter.

"...I grasp my narcissism with both hands and I turn my back on the degradation of those who would make man a mere mechanism." F. Fanon

And here, I shamelessly severe the rest of it. I don't believe in wholes, anyway.

Just because...

www.logographos.blogspot.com

The 8th December post.

Pingu, for a number of reasons, is my favourite cartoon.

Why aren't you here with me?


Abe.

Do?

kulkuthtah

Then I could waft in and out of you.
You stack them all up inside of me
It's useless you say
She ought to be here by three
Pick me a rose from that bush

Pinch the damn fish
Arms bent out of shape
The smell of brand new chuddar
Musty earth beneath your kohlapuris
Arches were good for revolutions you said

Plodding
Were we there as yet?
But I liked meeshti far too much
And I stepped on dung balls
During Sarawasti Puja the year before last

"What is the moral of the story?"
Black widows make for good metaphors
I need to rein you in
Washing you makes my skin peel
But also so terribly lonely to watch you steal

“My horizons are enlarged by reading the writers of poems, seeing a painting, listening to some music, some opera, which has nothing at all to do with volatile human condition or struggle of whatever. It enriches me as a human being. And so the artists should not be tempted to make propaganda of their lives.” --- Wole Soyinka

My friend always refers to the literature we have on Tibet as 'propaganda.' I used to grimace when I heard that word. Somehow, I always thought that propaganda ought to keep its ugly head (or so I thought) hidden in Mao's little book. What had I, an artist, anything to do with propaganda? I ought, like Soyinka says, to 'enrich' myself. I am a tainted artist if my writing leans to the tendencious.

I write solely because I have not the strength to be a writer or an artist without making note of what happened a week ago in the Himalayan mountains. http://www.protv.ro/filme/404.html

Pilgrims fall down on the snow without a sound. The others carry on. The soldier sits down and lights a cigarette. All of it lacks the sheen of reality. But perhaps my reality has been tainted too: by the all pervasive accompanying music, by the pitch black shrieks, by the information I am able to receive at three in the morning.

I refuse to let my reality destroy someone else's. I refuse to let my 'Writing' come in the way of life: my life and my people's.

Fan 1.

I like youandI.
youandI are purple.
"Would this do just as well?"
Would you do just as well?
Disappointment is crossing over and recombining in me.
I thought you could see me.
I suppose the fan was far too loud.

For love, whenever I find you.


Dearest Acha,
I remember that you said that there was a child in every one of us. Wishing you a happy birthday. Though we won't be there to blow your candles out and since your growing bigger now I hope that wonderful kid in you won't fade.
--- Love
Gyelek

I saw him sitting on the pavement of a bylane. Park Street. I think the bylane had a restaurant called Malgudi. He was reading her. The watering of my mouth and anticipation clouded the Calcutta road into my squirrel. Was I confusing the road and him? I wanted to sit next to him and feel his moist kurta against my thigh. I wanted to be able to smell his onion odour.

I turned 21 a few weeks ago. My brother sent me "The Newspaper Dog" by Enid Blyton. It has a hard cover and pretty illustrations, he points out.

http://www.time.com/time/quotes/0,26174,1222209,00.html

This is how the world's largest growing economy handles the spread of rabies. Clearly there is no relationship between economy and compassion. Or is there?

Micheal Wolff said it about the Darfur situation and I say this about my life : My life "doesn't seem real to me. It seems like a confection created by some unseen truth." I see it. I feel the cogs turn somewhere else.

Sense. Order. Reason. Logic.


All Tibetans are free.
No Tibetans are free.
Some Tibetans are free.
Some Tibetans are not free.

Truth flows downward. Falsity climbs upwards.
I like Boole better. We should teach the Chinese the Boolean standpoint. Then when they state that "All Tibetans are happy" why bother arguing about whether they are or aren't. Let's ask them if Tibetans exist or not. I am not so sure about their existence myself.

Reading Eliot backwards helps

I read "Liminality and Self"
And discovered I was the Liminal
I read Ngugi
And I am Asham-ed
I forget which Laurence story I read
But it was me in it
Where's my mirror?
The forest is not my home

I can't unpack right now
I can see through the cracks in my hands
I am a spendthrift according to the oracle of the cracks

Coming full circle isn't round anymore
I will ask Ophelia her flowers
I know I am trying too hard
Reading Eliot backwards helps , then.

Cote-de-Ivorie vs. Argentina

First there was light.
An animal rhythm broken
The sea swollen and bruised
My thud thud thud
Five and ten and then it was too cool.
The sheen of carnality returned
Cloudy sight because of misses
The animal breathing loudly
24 and the bruise licks itself
Metallic taste left in us
32 and the smell overtakes me
It is the smell that drives them to despair
Bring white cloth soaked in water
81 cracks in the sheen
"You idiots!"
An outsider in the box
3 and the animal is slowing
But the mind is still cloudy
The smell returns with too renewed a strength

Deconstructing oneself is not the best thing to do. King Lear was happy. This Cordelia is a bit worried. Not unduly nor do I have a leaden tongue. My tongue twists around words and leaves me with a metallic taste. Tong-gew. How many years before I cease to be a site of contestation?
I never liked the Card sharper's daughter. She betrayed him for the monkeyfacedcrosseyed Manthan. I don't think she really loved him. Her embarrassment at being discovered stealing bananas might hold the key to her betrayal. Fie, fie. Black grams never seemed so apetizing.

LET THERE BE PROSE!

Snippets of a play I intend to write, am writing. But then I intend to do a lot of other things too.


T. If you have other questions than that if I use toilet paper, or not for that matter, then
please proceed. And the answer is, ‘No.’ (Pauses) For reasons that have to do with
hygiene rather than taking a political stance. But one could argue that it isn’t totally
devoid of some politics. After all, didn’t the unceremonious undertaking of a housewife
splitting an egg into two in the early morning hours inspire a war between the little
people?
U. Divining the initial question wasn’t that difficult, was it?
T. That's quite an incestuous question.
U. You need not answer that.
T. If I don't answer that, well, then what am I to answer to? Petitio Principii, on my part or
yours?

Little boxes, little boxes.
Daniel Powter shames me into goosebumps
The tree struck lightning should be a lightning struck tree
I want a drum I could beat into flight
Mr Royal Highness' ear has been poisoned
Royalty is my wrong allusion
Ten and counting years since
The hunters brought the heart
My yellowed memory
Their yellowed memories
Pockets of mointeres unchanging
Work grumpy, work sleepy,
Work dopey.