Friday, August 18, 2017

Landmine 1

(19 August 2017, 7:44 am.)

So, here I am. Watching this show that has been making me wonder why in God's ungracious name Rotten Tomatoes rates it 93%. Wondering at the fact that everything I dislike about the show seems to be the premise and the pivot of the show. At the fact that everything I like about the show keeps trying to be overshadowed, in the show, by the central character, whom I keep trying, in vain, to find tolerable. Finishing my second beer after working till 5:00 am. Being awake for almost 22 hours straight at this point.

When...bam! There it is. There it fucking is. A kiss. A goddamn single well done kiss that has now connected with some goddamn revolting, involuntary nerve of ideal desire, idle nostalgia, in some deep, dark, dead corner of what I shall charitably call my existence.

So at this point, I'm 2 episodes down from that scene, because apparently my fear of processing, writing, pausing is so strong that continuing to watch the goddamn show is the only way I could get through the last 40 minutes, although my mind, my time, had ground to a dead halt. It ground to a dead halt and kicked into reverse and I fumbled through people, images, moments to confirm to or remind or convince myself that I've had that feeling before. That feeling.

And I'm going to go back now. I'm going to go back to that episode and that scene so I can grasp at more articulation this time round.

Here we go.

Alright. So I'm done rewatching it and I've started with the third beer.

I think I get it. I really think I do. I think it's the silence and the eye contact, together, that is more jellyfying than any physical contact, then I think it's the spontaneity and the lack of any warning of the kiss, that two people can give into in such a split second, in such a split second, that you question the physics of time. Weren't they always kissing? There's no way they could have been mid-sentence just a second and a half ago. Such fire in every pore that you don't know where or how to move your arms or your fingers. It's like you have glowsticks for limbs. And what the hell do you do with glowsticks?

Weren't we always kissing?

I remember. (Remembering feels wrong because it means it stopped, or changed, or ended, or paused, and none of those are acceptable.) I remember abandon. And surrender. And annihilation. And creation. And absolute zero. Absolute fucking zero, when it all stops.

I remember the strength it took to want. And being consumed by the want. And being consumed by and the ecstasy and the torture of that consumption. I remember the consumption.

So I suppose that's what the kiss was. One of some unknown number of landmines (invisible, until you either singlemindedly work toward nothing but uncovering them, or step on one and are blown to merciful smithereens) snuggled away in me, hiding under...whatever the fuck.

I hate remembering. Just give it to me, or don't.

Then again, words have left me behind, so memories, feelings, people leaving shouldn't be a surprise..

(8:30 am.)

Sunday, December 06, 2015

Quotes

A book in quotes?

Wednesday, December 02, 2015

The Depressive Theory of Relativity

(2 December 2015, 4:12 pm.)

Time seems to slow the hell down when you're feeling like this. I just looked at the clock, thinking I must have already worked 10 hours today, and it's only 4:13 pm and I've worked 4 hours so far.

Obviously, realizing how out of sync your body is with reality only worsens matters for your head. It's like nature's own little spiral of fuck-you-i-can-always-make-it-worse.

It doesn't feel like an exaggeration to say that time and space both dilate painfully. Reaching 2 feet across a table to grab a piece of paper feels like someone thinks you're made of elastic and is stretching your arm from New York to California. Getting through 5 consecutive minutes of anything feels like someone made you hold your breath under water the whole time.

There's also a particular weight on your chest that is crushing, so maybe the relativity makes sense after all.

Friday, November 27, 2015

Mujra

There is a forgotten art in the tradition of prostitution. It is called mujra and it is beautiful.

Mujra is the ability to dance with your eyebrows, emote through the raising of an eyelid, and have sex with the tap of a heel. The curvature of a palm is the difference between giving up your life and receiving someone else's, and the bend of a wrist between pain and pleasure. The space between a dangling earring and the cheek whose movement makes it dangle is where the sun sets and rises, and flick of a finger causes stars to implode. The jut of an elbow is a deep thrust and the imperceptible reaction of a hip the deepest breath.

Every human experience is expressible through the minimal motions of a single, sublime, soaring, subtle human body.

For a fairly unremarkable-looking creature, I have always had a disproportionate interest in jewellery, and I realize now that it's because the singular motion of a bangle on a forearm can capture more human emotion than words can convey.

And for that reason, I am done writing.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Spectrum

August 13, 2014, 8:01 am

It is not too often that I am stunned at what it takes for me to open a blank page, but this is one of those moments. I have been awake for 22 hours, and worked for 17 of them. I should be asleep but am loathe to let pass the chance of finally putting thoughts (and feelings) into words. I am also, of course, loathe to go through the process of articulation – measured articulation, perhaps, this time, and loathe to come back and read what I am certain will end up an inaccurate and inadequate attempt.

It is also not too often that I am relatively content with how I manage my feelings, but until about a week ago, I think I was. Age has lent a rationality that I could use to temper the decided madness with which I approach a lot of life, but I rarely do. This time was different. Context, perhaps, forced the mind, and as did, maybe, the strength of the curious desire that I will not admit to having.

It is, on the other hand, very often that I disappoint myself, and this is no exception. The rationality that was, for once, not theoretical, is becoming increasingly so. All the things that I understood a week ago, I no longer seem to, as the weight of my want swells upon my chest. This spectrum that I slip and slide on has its sweeter – perhaps bittersweeter – spots, such as when I found myself a few days ago stubbornly looking in an unsuited market for an object that would fit the conception I had settled upon, simply because it made me excited to think that the surprise might, just maybe might, make you smile. That moment as I walked into the tenth store when I realized what I was doing was scary and exciting and full of the hope that I could make you happy. My heart raced in the fear of what you’d think if you knew and the joy of wanting to do it anyway.

But on the whole, this spectrum tends to pull me to one side, and I cannot fathom how I could leave the rationality that allowed me to be happy, both with circumstance and with myself for being rational, and find my way to the madness that certainly feels – really just feels – more, but also sparks agony. I do not understand myself; then how can I expect you to?

I close my tired eyes to violent images, wishing that you’d want to hold and comfort me as I want to hold and comfort you.

8:46 am

Friday, March 28, 2014

City Scape

Grey, cloudy, chilly, drizzly. Your city sends me its weather, but does not send you.

Tuesday, March 04, 2014

Spoon

There's the red plaid shorts that were once yours. There's the tank top without the bra underneath. There's the 5 inch long blade slicing the inside of my thigh because your hand isn't there. There are my hands hiding in the fetal position because your fingers are too good for me. There's all my exposed skin, burning like the devil's would when exposed to the cross because I am the devil and you're the only one who could convince me otherwise. You were my friend. You made me smile. You didn't just break my heart, you broke me.

There is the hollow space behind my back as I'm curled over and the space in between the cave I've created in front of my stomach and the vacuum in the crook of my neck because you won't hold me from behind and make the world disappear.