Daily Life

Amrita: In Defence of Her Hair

Of Opinions

cropped image for twitter Amrita, and her Hair

Her parents deemed her of ambrosial* quality.
Black wires grow on her head+
For which their is little accountability.
Her pater is to blame for its heredity.
His sister, her aunt, for its similarity.

Please she never could her esteemed community.
Whose Devi she resembled in the shape of her mane
But, likeness did not save her from people’s disdain.

durga Goddess Durga

“Why care you, child?” said the Goddess in Yodaen** syntax
Your people are proud but their sense of fashion is lax.

Not I, I said, Goddess Divine
I do my best, with your grace, by every scrap I find.
These wires though are impossible to mind.
Harder to tame than the lion you bestride.

I have accepted their unwillingness to bend
To obey rule or care for tend
No egg honey mask can disguise the task
Of Teezing these Tangles
But, I’m glad…

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Daily Life

It’s all about progress (continued)

Seeing that I am in a perpetual slump right now it was nice to read something like this wasn’t it? One of the best posts I real from Mihai. Keep blogging.

Cristian Mihai

We must view with profound respect the infinite capacity of the human mind to resist the inroads of useful knowledge.Thomas B. Lounsbury

I spent eight years of my life writing and reading without:

  • Earning money
  • Other people reading it (besides the ocassional muse)

But I kept at it.

First month I started this blog: 500 views.

First month of self-publishing: 1 e-book sold and one paperback. I quit for a while, tried again after I started this blog: first month of self-publishing(second time) I sold 3 e-copies of a short story and earned $1.05 before taxes.

Any sane person would have quit.

I didn’t.

A few months after that, I finally began selling books, earning from advertising.

I thought this was it. The hard work paid off.

I met this girl, we fell in love.

It was paradise.

I was who I was and I didn’t have to…

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Daily Life, poetry, Writing, Writings

rolling on

the tenacity of my mouth
even when the realm of speech
can only bring silence as conversation
is the promise of a dew; talking is not cheap
it is cheapened but the decidedly virtuous
or the virtuoso of teeth; mouthing and mumbling
what was never in their vein and even their taste buds
couldn’t have known: the beauty of the lie and luck
is that they can be adjacent in their use of ether
after all we give a saliva in a spit — saliva in a kiss
yet ether is never galvanised by falseness
like saliva can never be a lifeline
lost in the nothing
I kissed you with my mouth closed
my saliva and yours was a coded language
without truth and only temerity
I could not calligraphise with my tongue
neither can you; it is when you are vulnerable the ink
of tongue can flow. We kiss open mouthed. You undressing
your fears and me unclothed from my own. ▬

Daily Life, poetry, Writings

holding on in a cardboard edge

There is something about the popular
deadly in its violence of conformity; of implicit “yes” and a nod of “no”
I can hear reason bubbling in a soup; atomised to perfection, simmered down
still a reason, reasonable enough to hold a candle. Burn it at both ends but have a clamp,
to teeth it in and see the spectacle. I have a reason to believe I am disliked. I know I am not an exception. What is exceptional about me is that I am honest; even when I am socially awkward I am not fake

Allah Almighty, Daily Life, everyday issues, everydayness, Fairytales, Families, feminism, fragmentory, Humanity, Identity, Inked Arteries, journal, Life Perspectives, Metaphysical, Philosophy, poetry, Psychological, Realities, Religion, short story, social issues, Society, Socio-Politics, Spiritual, Surreal, Survivors, women, Writing, Writing, Writings

a female’s tale

I suppose I will be understood — when I die?
that death be my proof seems such a simple thing
a cliche, a blinding light which has no priority: no proprioception.
I am not going to die, soon, if I am going to die at all
it is a stupid thing to make immortal the person who has no mortality
denying them their temporality is denying them the identity to live

so, I will not die today or tomorrow, or the day after, if I am able to hope so
— I will torture you with life, with my life, the life that you wish to deny me
I will live with, with my sins, blessings, regrets and asking my God for forgiveness
I will live it when I exhale and inhale, when I wear a burqa or a miniskirt to chide you
for trying to shame me for my veil and legs — for in each I brought the beauty of living
which you wanted to deny me — by a choker of silence, no fetish I gave consent to
no sexualisation I gave consent you. I am sexual in my billowy robes; modest as I bare my legs: my lips and eyes will insinuate life which you tried to martyr me for with the helm of the shirt, with the housework I will do and you will never give me credit for and the children I will raise but will respect you more and the precipice of my tongue wanting release — a smarting, shattering, constructing orgasm which you feel you will deny me and I am a slut to want for more.

You are the slut for being scared of me — scared of all that I can achieve and all that I am more — when I wore the apron to shine the bannisters or cook the food I am still a soldier battling as an architect, close to godliness, close to the apex of a trinity: soldier, sage and stable revolutionary with all the vices and virtues you needed and more. I am the same when I wear my shoes; those minimum pumps required by corporate to stand in toe in height with men; or, many a times look taller and deadlier than them anyway.  What they think is the erection of the tower of their own bones, so amazing right, just is an ivory tower of height not the tusk of the mammoth, or elephant, not the planetary audience — when I wear the proper shoes to school but fail because I am nice — because you wanted me to be but wanted a coquette too which I could not be and shamed me the once in a blue moon grades I got because you were afraid to admit you underestimated me. That I was out of your league.

My lips be nude or doused with rogue — or doused with the flames of gasoline fuel I will not die today, by immolation, by spears, stones, guillotine or bullets, or you choose to efface me day in and day out like acid rain on the face of what you think are statues. I will not die today of ennui, of boredom, of lack of recognition — I have my cognition, my gears, my sword, my stones, my glass shoe that I sharpened to my spear and I have the hijab, the nude hair, the scarf, the nun’s habit, the shaved head, the colour blue and the habit to be relentless in my bones and marrow. My flesh may have been born from a rib that means I can be you and more. That was the lesson you should have learned when you swallowed the fruit with me. I am poison. I am potion. I am elixir. I can be edenic in the core. I am a rampaging beast but I also show the compassion of brotherhood and sisterhood. I am XX. I am what some call woman. I am mostly female. I write the laws of the feminine. Not you. Queer or straight. Religious or secular. I am irreplaceable. I am the rib you need and the fruit you will want to swallow. I can kill the serpent, the trickstar. Both the sinner and the saint. I will not die today. I live in everything in the ether.

Daily Life

Footnotes for the day:

Etches of Ink and Light

  1. A flyer titled “The Power of Mentorship” quotes an undocumented resident: “I would have killed to know someone like me when I was 18.” Looking past the “killing” as merely a figure of speech, the quote drives home the point that sometimes the lack of relations in one’s life can be the setting in which one is primed to destroy the relations one already has. The logic goes as: because you don’t know someone like you, you might be ready to kill someone you know or barely know.
  2. When looking into the human rights abuses of women outside global north, we have to look into the role that state apparatus and economic rights play in the violence towards women. That understanding of respective states has to be then contextualized in a regional scale that takes into account the role of inequalities between nation states and the ways in which hegemonic military-political…

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Daily Life

Always getting better

I really liked this post by Jonas David. I also wrote a comment on his site/blog but I decided to publish some parts of it here because I feel they also had some ideas on what I think on writing:
About this post. These were wise words that you stated. I really enjoyed reading them. You are right. As long as your mental faculties are intact you are not in any “prime” thus writing is something you can do pretty much your entire life. And that is amazing. I love writing a lot because of that because it frees parts of you that you though unimaginable and allows you an proactive hope to face the world, the time and space that you are oriented in. It can create dimensions that allow you to feel satiated; introduce to hungers that you did not know before and make you intimate with lost parts of yourself.

Jonas David

Writing is one of the best hobbies to have, because you can always get better at it. With most things you reach a peak, then your body starts to fail you and you’re done with. Writing, though, can only get better with experience, and as long as your mind is healthy you can keep doing it until you die.

The older you get, the more you will have read, and the more  you will have done and experienced, and the more interesting ideas you’ll have. And thus, the better writer you’ll be! It’s nice to know there’s no ‘prime’ I’m going to be past, until my mind starts to go, at which point there is nothing else to do anyway.

Read, write, repeat!

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Daily Life

In between Blumenberg’s The Laughter of the Thracian Woman

interesting views on theorising everyday and the availability of said theory as a understandable practice. Is theorising everyday life a manacle to impede understanding? Efadul Huq has taken some interesting quotes from “The Laughter of the Thracian Woman” to show some pivotal understanding about mainstream understandings of logic and theory and how realistically things may be opportune, experimental, feasible and liveable via other means of criticism and reasonability.

Etches of Ink and Light

The quoted portions are from Hans Blumenberg’s The Laughter of the Thracian Woman. The italiced portions are my notes.

“With the separation of instrument and observer, the outward appearance of “theory” as a procedure becomes more normal, and this trend increases the more science intentionally withdraws from the field of what the average person is willing and able to comprehend. Most importantly, this also means that the everyman can no longer empathize with what it is about those “objects” that can absorb a working life. To counteract this divergence from people’s familiar experiences, growing swarms of publicists try to keep theory and theorists “interesting” to a paying public. Meanwhile—how could it be otherwise?—professional theorists are most readily accepted when they approach the phenotype of the now universally familiar bureaucrat and thereby lay claim to the seriousness that mainly comes with dealing in large amounts of money.”

What misfortunate! Money replaces…

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