Feminine expectations

They watch, we please
exhibit change display reveal
dress compete
seduce,
to not
is to not please
is to be a man
is not feminine enough
to be,
is not me,
to please.
change-display-continue-complete
or lose, for
the next door is brighter now.
To compete or not be admired,
which is worse?
To please or not be desired,
which is worse?
To not be the spectator or not be a woman,
which is worse?

The feminine

Growing up is best a strife.

We can only strive for grace by knowing what it means to be foolish.

For, what is not acquired out of your own accord, is as good as not known.
And for, once you 'grow up' to fit into what is considered correct/wise/good, there is little way back to foolishness - you have only so many years while you're allowed the liberty to not know, to explore freely, to be entirely foolish without letting too much at stake (speaking as a girl). Once you align yourself, you see yourself the way the world sees you, you are responsible for maintaining your voice, maintaining that grace, for being responsible and correct.
Time makes it mandatory to take charge sooner than later (again speaking as a girl bound by a social structure), to anchor oneself, 'impose' your identity and place among the many, and seek comfort. it becomes mandatory to take charge, and most importantly be heard and strive to be understood, rather than simply explore and rebel at your own terms.

The fool is lost, unrestrained by the control we exercise on ourselves to be 'right', to be 'clever', to fit into the structure. the fool is vast as the open sky. the fool is as free as he is vulnerable or alone. but the fool is also harmless(read unimportant), he is lovable. it is a self-destructive space to be in alright, in a world where the winners are running constantly to seek only more stability and definition; being lost, is being excluded, and so one must be strong enough to not lose the sight to emerge, to know you have to lose only to know better - if you do tread there. And those who wander, do.

I am glad i have been foolish. As foolish as i wanted to be to live the 'unwise' side of life. I became the fool who did not know who belonged to me, or how to define myself,  amongst a world of anchored friends. what came to me, became mine.
i explored everything i could possibly be, and everything i became, i broke. i created without defining the self.

Theres no right or wrong, no good nor bad, and no way to judge a person, alight.
what matters here is that It is those who stand at the edge, who stand outside the set norm, who need most to heed the fine line between madness and being communicative. For weakness or loneliness is far worse than mediocrity. thought one day, over-thinking the next. Exotic one moment, mad the next; the lines are so fine - and one has to be conscious enough to remain articulate at all times just so you don't get taken for granted for being 'crazy'.
I suppose the power of beauty or happiness compensates for everything: all we need is to have a graceful step, the ability to coexist beautifully, and it hardly matters what you think or believe.
Tone too is key in separating the wise from the fool.
One can humor everything and every question can be expressed as an answer. Everyone is wise anyway - what makes one heard then?
everyone around me has a voice. the image aids the voice and vice versa
what is my voice? am i voiceless? am i every kind of voice?
i'm still understanding my voice..
till then bare with the inconsistencies of my voice.

i dissolved everything when i chose so - and then defined myself again.
confusing and alarming those who know me, too. (i'm sure)

In a world of images, you have to be an image too: something impressionable, recognizable, definable. if everything is moving as it really is, where do we centre ourselves?
what do we cling to an image for - and is every image not cerebral and conscious? - that is where the question of intelligent choice comes in, to be able to choose spontaneously and intelligently at every step. pick your causes and your voice from the myriad causes and voices.

________

In the light of Rape being the most used four letters in the news, at the tip of the tongue of every student, boy, girl, page and column of every daily at the moment; (as if it was just discovered and all other crimes were inconsequential in it's critical rise), i add my inconsequential tweet to the mob. i'm in no position to comment on society or indian society or make any such sweeping commnets, but, at a very personal level, i'm able to connect it to a very normal act of foolishness most individuals deals with or explore -  the treatment (or mistreatment) of the body. 'growing up' is important in understanding the self, the choices we make may not always be right;  being mistreated has little to do with strangers, or class or country, but making yourself clear to even friends what a woman makes of her own self- every day and every minute, and the lesser sensitivity with which men, the other half of the yin and yang, see or need to see their bodies, which is perhaps at the root of the huge responsibility that comes with being a woman.

(i wouldn't know what men really feel about their bodies - so this is just an observation from popular culture)

Here goes my own little imagery, the frightful image of being mistreated or taken for granted, which almost amounts to letting yourself be raped.

Of letting your body in hands that may not respect your body the way you do,

either because you did not make the other see it such, or because, a man really never can.

This is in hindi. Continued later.


kal main ek khwahish thi

aur aaj

kisi ki hansee hoon

tum hanse ho

apni uss chhat ke neeche

iss rooh mein kuch nahi chupane ya dikhane ko,

woh sundar jo saaf hai

kyon jatati hoon mein dosti

bina duniya ko samjhe

kyon rehti hoon mein chhup

samajhne ki koshish mein

joh chahtein hain mujhe,

aur

jo mere layak hi nahi

aur aaj phir jaati hoon wahan

uss rooh ko khojnein

jise choo kar tum chhat ke neeche hanse

kyon?

kya jataoon useh

jiska ek mazaak hoon main

jisne pyaar ki ehmiyat ko cheena

phir bhi jaati hoon main,

tumme ab

uss mazaak ka nyay khojne

mere rooh ko khojne

uss hansi mein

kaun hain mere apne?

aur kaun hain paraye?

main ek mazaak,

aur main woh mazaak phir karoongi

baar baar,

kyonki tum ek ghatiya insaan ho

aur mein jhooti

                                              From alaknanda to govind puri on a dark night
         

Shillong

                                          

Open again.
the city:
my process:
a city of forms. creation swamps. chew down, do not breathe.. register, do not create. see, do not believe. review, do not become. pause, do not add. forget, do not name. wonder, do not understand. re-form, don't form.  feel its weight, don't distinguish.
be swamped, don't grasp. become lost, do not know. and then if you must, then, know all over again; and forget all over again.
Be helpless, suspend.
open all that's closed; let it float, absurd, and excessive.
and then please let me know: what next? can you go back?
yes, i must create to talk about dissolution. that is the flaw you ignore.



(change form rather than inhaling it for what it is)



you're helpless, in a vast sea: suspend the anchors.


volume, not meaning.

Local Gods

Then there are gods.
The chosen few.
They are experienced, more outdated than old, but old nevertheless.
They know everything. They have sized everything, been there, done that, they are the tripper voluptuaries and the objectifyers with a cause. They have their empires strong. And with it, they are the undisputed supreme epitome of manhood if only in a little place called home to them. They assume the position of all-knowing misogyny with a greatness they command. They revere with boyish reticence another self proclaimed local god(dess) of equal talent, and use the words 'bitch' and 'whore' for every other being of the opposite sex, for they are the higher of beings, men of few words and large history, the desired, the all-knowing. Their humor is unconventional and they are too supreme to talk straight or often, to speak at all.
They hang in bunny outfits.
Worship those who ask for worship. But before that, identify your gods.
Yes, They are god's gift to womankind, some, god themselves.
It's hard not to be charmed by their delusions of supremacy - their worlds are small, usually.
Sometimes they let you know.
They are the men whose ugly semen is vastly public (greatness calls for service) - and the sacred one too private to venture into (such is their greatness).
They are born to breed many : They are the men who 'love women too much'.
Men of few words and many memories and masculine as it gets.
They are our local gods - And they are only too welcome in our scheme of things.

If only modesty was a virtue that came with power and talent.

                                                             First swim this season

Comic Strip 01

spotting sparrows : comic strip for an online magazine

What he said to her

I could write a poem for you
and make you sorry now in all your glitter, for you shine,

but i'm the special critic.

10.02.13 Amidst

And now?
I see no beauty in me
but that of everyone-
a form full of secrets;
now i am one amidst beauty -
beauty - escalating by chance or boundless from the start, a mere fluke a gorgeous deciet,
of the face alone or dress or just words.
Of the composure, the expression
the work, the smile, the freedom.
The control, the sensuality.
Of the effortless and the acquired.
The colour, the discipline, the taste, the motion, the places, the moans,
the bare chest, the full breast.

7.02.13

Shed a tear i won't,
My reticence to be who I am
is my fear of lies
which lies not in my clothes
nor my love for life,
but my fear of being one with
your lies.

Update

Dinner to Rosang, our much awaited naga meal.

Beauty

Beauty is stillness of a motion,

a weave,
a method -
is the seduction.

Wonder

Are love-words guilt for what is filthy,
or yet another pretense
of our dainty purity?
uUnder a new light they will change too,
light needs no cover of words,
money will do,
to buy friends not kept and moments not lived,
and now to buy
the innocence of doubt, idealism of love, a first touch,
a face lost, the innocence of not knowing me,
loose shirts and pony tails
and hanging jewels,
not breasts nor butt.
No form, but
wonder, pride,
wait and
the grandness of me,
close, if ever,
to you,
back

chennai, bangalore, pondicherry

               a cigarette with R

                                                                             lovely painful heidi

Strength

Tum ho toh accha hai,
tum na ho, toh bhi accha hai.

'Make a good book, not a great one.'

Past

Forerunners get lost (as
other's find),
in old
stones, smiles and frills,
mine more than these lines -
is the beauty of innocent
starts.

Method

From
maximum mess,
you brew
magic.

Dirty

Fear clean,

hide the sensual,

subvert the pure, bury sense -

for some, be true, not honest.

Music

I orchestrate moves
and everything you are,
yet
i'm lost in the filth
I am, when you move.

Being a girl

When you are innocent,
they are stronger.
Once aware,

you are not naive.

The more your know,
the further you deviate,
but to not see is to not learn.
When lost in your own,

you cannot be heard,

when you say it as it is,
you are an open book.
When you are colorful,
you are not sharp,
and colourless
is immature.
When you achieve,
you are week within,
When larger than life,
you are not simple,
and when you strip yourself of all
you are less attractive.

I am insatiable.
I have been all I wanted,
and nothing remains.
I am more than that in my ordinariness,
and I fear
what a moment lacks,
more than what it holds.

Cliche

Everyone's beautiful,
everyone's got a story,
everyone's a judge.
If only i could collect myself again,
gather my dues,
fulfill the selfish desires of this heart,
be stable
and loved,
could I devote myself to the wounds
and joys of their heart.

Both

Stoop low,
High as you are,
Vivid as is life.

evenings

Centre

What it takes to be good to the wrong
is kindness (not indifference),
and the best of them will
only feel more victorious,
the question is whether
to hold your ground or walk on their's
to prove a point.
I'll prove it (again), if
to care is to not fall, and now I will be true to my style.

Pretending

To pose your heart as you pretend

to be if only a belief

is true but

he who won't wear 

his heart on his sleeve

he who conceals what he could be

is untrue it seems

so then what matters is not who is pretending

but who reveals and who doesn't.

 story by Franz Kafka

finally- the book mark