Part of me

art at brick lane

“Part of me is made of glass, and also, I love you.”

― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

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Interludes

Somedays I am there
ready, smiling, like a
prelude to the onset of a
melodious symphony,
every chord of me knows it
feels the rhythm of it.

somedays I have melancholy thoughts
strange spaces in my mind
like I don’t belong to the hour
nor the place.

There is though
a self-sufficing power
in aloneness,
while I fill the vacant spaces
become stronger in these
interludes.

catgirl power

Artwork by Maleeha

 

 

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lost words

string of thought

“So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days, you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglass-I’veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme….

There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bunch of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.

The practice of attaching cups to the ends of string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America.

When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented.

Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence.”

― Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

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Hand me your love

hands on face

White hands by Artist Thomas Saliot

“The first language humans had was gestures. There was nothing primitive about this language that flowed from people’s hands, nothing we say now that could not be said in the endless array of movements possible with the fine bones of the fingers and wrists. The gestures were complex and subtle, involving a delicacy of motion that has since been lost completely.

During the Age of Silence, people communicated more, not less. Basic survival demanded that the hands were almost never still, and so it was only during sleep (and sometimes not even then) that people were not saying something or other. No distinction was made between the gestures of language and the gestures of life. The labor of building a house, say, or preparing a meal was no less an expression than making the sign for I love you or I feel serious. When a hand was used to shield one’s face when frightened by a loud noise something was being said, and when fingers were used to pick up what someone else had dropped something was being said; and even when the hands were at rest, that, too, was saying something. Naturally, there were misunderstandings. There were times when a finger might have been lifted to scratch a nose, and if casual eye contact was made with one’s lover just then, the lover might accidentally take it to be the gesture, not at all dissimilar, for Now I realize I was wrong to love you. These mistakes were heartbreaking. And yet, because people knew how easily they could happen, because they didn’t go round with the illusion that they understood perfectly the things other people said, they were used to interrupting each other to ask if they’d understood correctly. Sometimes these misunderstandings were even desirable, since they gave people a reason to say, Forgive me, I was only scratching my nose. Of course I know I’ve always been right to love you. Because of the frequency of these mistakes, over time the gesture for asking forgiveness evolved into the simplest form. Just to open your palm was to say: Forgive me.”

“If at large gatherings or parties, or around people with whom you feel distant, your hands sometimes hang awkwardly at the ends of your arms – if you find yourself at a loss for what to do with them, overcome with sadness that comes when you recognize the foreignness of your own body – it’s because your hands remember a time when the division between mind and body, brain and heart, what’s inside and what’s outside, was so much less. It’s not that we’ve forgotten the language of gestures entirely. The habit of moving our hands while we speak is left over from it. Clapping, pointing, giving the thumbs-up, for example, is a way to remember how it feels to say nothing together. And at night, when it’s too dark to see, we find it necessary to gesture on each other’s bodies to make ourselves understood.”
Nicole Krauss, The History of Love

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haiku

I used to be nice

now I don’t see a reason

to scrape and bruise myself.

                                                             Haiku by Shal

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Brew up a kiss

 

I’ve given you enough warning

I’m not a great person to love, with

My shall-we-have-tea-first temper

It’s a destroyer? Me –thinks not.

 

I’m not just lips, and skin and poems

I’m a mansion, almost an abode

I’ll take you to galleries and sad movies

Kiss you in front of Gustav’s spot.

 

At times fresh pecks in bird-chirpy gardens

 caresses oft’ musty libraries & monuments

The smells you will gather in the recesses

Of your cortex, will keep you hot.

 

Pillager yes. Like a storm, inflamed

plunging berries soaked in soil inseparable

Exhilarating though, Leave you an earthy &  emotional

Toil, stains that do not blot.

The_Kiss_-_Gustav_Klimt_-_Google_Cultural_Institute

Gustav Klimt, The Kiss , 1908–1909

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In search of stones

Explains Joseph Campbell

‘If the path before you is clear,

You’re probably on someone else’s.’

The dignified , and rich with experience

world, offers you a compatible life;

you subdue a gnawing

hunger for chaos, for non

conformity, you feel

suffering in just being.

 

You will flip, he says

You will feel incongruity.

You will venture into a realm

Of danger, creativity, in a quest for

Bliss, which is yours, there Is no strife.

The search for life you start, in the

 darkness of creative pleasure,

endure its pain and torture; love

and hate through your art.

 

you have intensity, you embrace

discomfort, marvel at your adventures.

You will experience the trials, and loss

Gain inspiration, and traverse that path

That’s yours, dignified, and rich from learning

Towards a compatible life.

sitting-woman

Watercolour : Stanislav Holota

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Entropy

strem-woman

Original watercolour : Stanislav Holota

Lack of order they say

Gradual decline,

It is the opposite of creative endeavor;

 I see it as a sign.

 

Seeds degenerating and sprouting

Into little radicle seedling,

The random little stem finding its way

towards the sun and smiling.

 

Or animal matter decaying

And providing healthy dung,

Stinking organic life, paving

For new life to be sprung.

 

The smaller minds and their karmas

The larger with attached chaos,

Sincere thoughts amidst

Incessant fake pathos.

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Hang out

Derick and I

we hang out, like

a lot.

we are a little alike

as friend are,

we enjoy people watching

at the café, sit catlike

we love our cosy creamy skin

narcissts by faar,

most of all, we love being alone

together, like

a lot.

dsc00126

 

 

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Wild flower

I

Grow like a wild flower

In all the places where

You wouldn’t think

Anything grows;

 

Climb  unknown buildings,

Little paths , In abandon

Through cracks

Untamed, yet

Easily broken

 

Blooming, shying

Just sprouting impulsive

No petals or thorns

Only pure

Spontaneity.

yellow-flowers-charming-wild-flower-field

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