Sometimes, suddenly…ceased…

You know somethings are bound to be finite, temporal and it looks at clockwise and anti-clockwise as intrinsically as a phoenix’s life cycle.  It is still hard to imagine why you were so invested in something when the investment, maybe not fiscal or economically measured as in with better libra scales on feelings, but pain is somethings not reductionist or reducible. A reduction of pain and hurt may mean something adverse but it may also mean that you are not knowing how to feel.

Nobody really coaches us on life’s relationship progress; it can go either way, have forks, have no forks, be a forked tongue  that swallows you whole or poisons you with preferences not your own. Even if someone tells you societal expectations and ideals the idyllic may say that it is a cheap whore at times and that it cannot be used over and over.

I am gaining unnecessary frustration due to unavoidable circumstances: I gaining fatigue.  My sleep is now more on an attenuated contract and my waking hours  has some episodic, fails that act like a dick. This has much to do with exploitative behaviourisms of people and also my inability to cut and cauterize parasitic leeches or even vampiric fangs. I am a bit confused at how to abandon someone/something without much blood-loss on both ends. It is like a war but not really; it is more like an impasse that reaches a rock and other rocks to me, and I am thinking am I wrong or rather do I love wrongly?

I love with an insatibale honesty. That is me. I love a bit more  freely than freedom in social etiquette usually allows; this is anything forcefully annoying but it is intense and desires a healthy proximity.  It knows when it is not wanted. It does not make pursuing stalking. It allows a chance of dialogue and if that dialogue is rejected it retracts and attempts to dissolve into fumes. It does not force and does not want to be forced.  I love and try to love with respect and allowances in eccentricities, introversions, extroversions, excesses or even strictness in personalities. My courtesy or voluminable honesty is not appreciated or returned. It is target of ostracization and suspect of “bad taste” or even “overeagerness” that is soon mellowed down by whatever attitude or straight-up hostile  badgering or ignorance/being ignored.

I have felt teary, genuinely upset when I felt slighted/ been slighted for no reason other than communicating an authentic interest in being friends or even by my flaws/mistakes which I earnestly apologised for. Truth is that people want all matters of understanding and appropriation from me but wish to castrate my identity, personhood and existence as a human being. No I am nobody’s saint nor do I have sainthood or masquerade piety on a golden plate with a silver spoon sticking out of  my tongue and mouth. I just notice that the amount of effort I put in even basic comments/conversations is not even met halfway by many people be this acquaintance or most people who claim to be my friends.

They will cajole me and claim that as I am their friend  or even communicating with them I am under some unspoken but legal obligation to give them the time of day, understanding, looking at things from their perspective, etcetera, etceteras, et all of the bullshit committee. Yet when it comes to me they can think they are entitled to bare their fangs, reach out and bite me with accusations or assumptions of my behaviour. If I acted out of their terms of polite homicide I am in for witnessing them spin shit on a fan.

I am genuinely emotionally, mentally and psychologically fatigued by this bullshit, self-absorbed attitude by many I see and interact with nowadays.

Truthfully, I am becoming inept or even devoid of feeling secure or even  comfortable of my own emotions/feelings because of those kinds of people. Decidedly I have conceded to be a bit nonplussed but this is not defeat or acknowledgement to their crapola yellow spined endeavours. This is just me breathing a sigh as a sign that game is on.

If you do not like someone or think you are better think again. Also ignoring someone shows fully that you are incapable of saying what you really think thus it is a coward’s vitamin pack. If you are constantly abusive and selfish it shows that your dictionary or vernacular is only filled with rust and germs out of some neanderthal skull-plate.

Me being sad is not a sign of you gaining self-importance. Me being sad is me being human. Me thinking of you as human and myself as human. It is me finally calling you out on your high pedestal bullshit and  liberating my human right to be appreciated and respected.

Of hypocrisies

Have you  ever stared down the barrel of hypocrisy?

I supposed I have on many occasions. It is not an easy thing to digest let alone stand but tolerance and patience can also be abused. I mean think of the mother/father, abusive, but easily retorts  to false claims of ownership, grandiloquent as they are,  on a child even an adult-child just because of biological or fostering equipments without much effort to be civil or even equivalence in the relationship.

Think about the mouth of a friend when she/he accuses you of unfriendly  conduct when for years you helped them carry their own weight as well as yours. Think how this friend easily counters  that the love you give them if you protest that their capacity for “friendship” is based on abuse and also unfair conducts aka exploitation of your feelings and efforts to retain a close bond.


Embed from Getty Images

Hypocrisy is  the elimination of questioning questionable conduct. It is the ethos sans pathos; the pinnacle of gluttonous lust over emotion-analytic and it is the systemic abuse of all sacred foundations or dynamics that you have held dear in a belief that the act of responses will have a shared mutuality. Hypocrisy eliminates even basic expectation but allows the over-expectation of “needs” and wants but only on a one path street. It manufactures a cul-de-sac for you but a freeway for the oppressor. Hypocrisy makes sacrilege sacred and sacrilege the sacred thus it is a crime. Yet it can be subtle and indirect, and its narcissism can also be camouflaged under guises of “benefits”, “rights” and also “duty” — it makes indiscriminate allowances to offenses but calls into the stand the  opportunity  to  discriminate its indiscretions or carte blanche. Basically hypocrisy is the sinner’s ouroboros and the saint’s  coercive chastity belt.

All these metonymies and metaphors  of hypocrisy are meant to not beautify it but obviously show that it eventually drowns in its own excesses. No one can be made a fool for long and even the classical play’s fool shows signs of enlightenment. The truth is that hypocrisy weighs itself on the scales of sympathy and constructed traditions of respect where respect is due out of necessitated obligation without knowledge, wisdom or even any egalitarian values as in hegemonized ranks. It wears a monarch’s crown as birthright so it does not espouse meritocracy and renounces absolution for it believes itself absolute and requires no reason expect impulse/instinct to proceed into action.

Roland Barthes talks about  myth as language, as a second semiological system that obliterates meaning from language and moves serpentinely by using language or even symbols as powerplayed images to  elevate, relegate  or even remonstrate that which may have originally or even contextually mean something else.  Myth as language engenders new artificial meanings into things for Barthes so in this regard his definitions of modern myth, as he puts it, comes also from the overproduction of cliched rhetorics and amalgamates that into everyday interactions to hegemonize language/gestures as a means to incapacitate the masses or non-elitist echelons that are not in power.

Hypocrisy uses this technique to its full capacity. Hypocrisy has modern day myth as its babe, its bitch, its bastard progeny. It is not ashamed of this incestuous union rather like a misogynized Lilith it embraces its role as fucker, fucked and will fuck/be fucked in the long run by the power-hunger fetish. Hypocrisy blooms in the emotional blackmail and manipulation of others and takes into its chaotic/nihilistic gonads a structural, ejaculative display of labels. Meaning it will use the excuse of “friendship”. “parenthood”, “freedom” even “intelligence” and “emotions” to silence any debacle related to it.  It will wear capitalist clothes but have a self-serving agenda and parade as a totalitarian but also subscribe consumer/industrial dogma.  It eschews from self-analyses and critiques because it wants to be able to say that it its rights that are violated or  being viable but will not turn the other cheek or even espouse the same/similar rights for others. This also extends to how the right might be the basic humanitarian understanding of respecting boundaries of a person or even just allowing a person their own free space.

It is sad that hypocrisy is so undeniably a freer agent than justice for in a world where  excess materialism and consumerism are the heads that do not roll you can be sure the hypocrisy has a nice seat. In a world where individual selfish and false sense of entitlements reign we can see hypocrisy flirtatiously flamboyant keeping egalitarian empathies locked away in some festering ivory tower.

So when we do look at the barrel of hypocrisy most likely we won’t be shot immediately or ever but we will be coerced to gaze  in its abyss and have a hazy outline of the arsenal; it will arrest our personhood but will become a symbolic identity in its own position.

Fictitious Dishes: Elegant and Imaginative Photographs of Meals from Famous Literature | Brain Pickings

Have you ever seen your favourite books be translated into a preparation of food? This is not paper mache for your tongue it is actual food styles in syntax with the books. See classics like The Bell Jar and Alice in Wonderland become banquets in front of you. Do you also wanna translate your own favourite books into a set meal on the table? Then do it and post pictures on tumblr and/or instagram and #setmealsetbook 

 

Fictitious Dishes: Elegant and Imaginative Photographs of Meals from Famous Literature | Brain Pickings.

Do I have things to talk about?

Contrary to how the world perceives content I think everyone, human or nonhuman, have a story to tell. I know that that story will be translated into a human scope in mind or human politics but still it’s a story to tell or write or something. A great point in case is the fantastic but not non-realistic novel called Black Beauty by Annie Sewell. Now though Black Beauty is the first novel I read I can say heartily that Black Beauty can beat Harry Potter and challenge Lord of The Rings easily. Though I love the latter two as well it’s just Black Beauty as a horse protagonist exhibits so many feelings that we don’t always see Harry or Frodo nor Bilbo exhibit.

 Frodo comes close to it but as his life in the books is shaped so much by the rings we do not always see him as anything other than the ringbearer (though I give props to Tolkien for making the generic “ringbearer” of legends who is akin to “best-man” in weddings have a heroic and versatile dimension). In contrast Harry is actually very generic at times; he doesn’t do much without an impetus and like a lamb accepts too much than he should. No, this isn’t about Harry in his Uncle and Aunt’s house it’s about Harry as a person in general. Harry is well pretty complacent about too much (fanfiction Harry is more well subversive in a harmonic or disharmonic sense mutually so). I mean he never understands Voldemort. I mean Rowling speaks of Voldemort as a villain but I do not see Harry understanding (not to say he should accept which he shouldn’t) why Voldemort hates Muggles so much. One may easily say its the difference or opposition but that is too simplistic.

You know a show that tackles this problem maturely albeit being a “children” sort of show is ironically My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. Despite some of its obvious childish stuff it shows four species of horses who can harmoniously live together if not sanctimoniously. The earth horses are well without wings or magic but they are so crucial to the world of Equestria this is so distinctively shown in Pinkie Pie’s character. Pinkie Pie stands out because in battle or even in normal scenes she actually never trots normally (rarely she does). She hops as in playfully jumps and like some metronomic dance but also “chaos” she keeps it very poised and balanced. It is something actually difficult to do but she does it with class. Thus even the so-called non-flight or non-magic ponies as in pegasi and unicorns are still very important.

This was discussed in a Youtube channel once (I forgot which) but Muggles are valuable. They can do stuff that wizards cannot and can at times triumph over them. I know Voldemort as a child feared muggles much more than he let on. This fear was shown but Harry never ruminated on it. It felt kind of sad that he didn’t. I wished he did. In contrast Black Beauty thought a lot about things. He always thought about many things: both the horse world and the human world. He understood why humans and horses needed coexistence but also thought humans had no right treated horses as slaves. Also he never discriminated much against humans or horses at times he envied the so-called weak. When he and Ginger are not able to follow their families because they are too bigs and Merry Legs can, being a dwarvish pony, he does show that each size has its importance and place.

The reason I put up so many examples is to percolate the fact that boredom may also be in the eyes of the beholder. It is true that my life is not interesting as Aussa’s nor John’s nor Sarah’s but I think it has something to tell which in telling may become important. I know that the world prefers traveling or the spectacular but I can only give what I can give.

My honesty is my arsenal. I hope you readers prefer it too.

Coy Lips; fictionic

We begin our story at a small school in a city in South Asia that may be South Asian in geography but has a geography a bit akin to a meshing. The school has a Baroch posture of mass geometric shapes that undulate and at times continue in some postmodernistic, a bit futuristic sway.

Akram is a boy of about ten at this time; that’s how he is remembering it, for a “now” is actually when he is seventeen. His eyes are a bit honeyed, not fully black or brown or that terrestrial mixture. His hair is a wavy of both hellenic and middle-eastern origins. His skin is a facsimile of brown and white: fax for it seems as though someone expertly delved in wax and some caramel-chocolate. Of course as a child his eyes looked larger and his grin a bit cherub-like. Cherub-like grins in childhood do have a tendency of seeming a bit hesitant in adolescence or adulthood.

The boy is a bit quiet. Lips are pursed at times. His worse subjects are history and grammars (both English and his vernacular) and his bests are actually literature and mathematics and science. His mother was told that he excelled in geography but that his drawing was not so great. Art was another subject he despised because he did not understand colours that well or shading but just preferred to well make lines which were also crooked.

Like crooked smiles of either wickedness or hesitation Akram was caught by the older year five person and soon kissed. It wasn’t a girl. Not that he would be not pissed if it was a girl. He didn’t like girls. Not most girls. Girls his age giggled and teased and then at times looked and stared a bit more fiercely at boys or made faces like them. The twelve year old boy who kissed him was not so rowdy though he had a reputation of getting in some fights that happened with certain classmates of other sections.

It was not so lingering but it was hard and a bit amateurish but the emotions were real. Very real. And he didn’t know what they were. To that young boy love was effervescent but not rushed intense. The older boy’s name was Fazi and he looked him straight in the eye after the kiss. It was a bit too intentional as though he didn’t want to look afraid.

“I like you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Like a girl.” Akram tried to make sense. To him girls can like girls and boys but boys only liked other boys to fight and liked girls for only kissing. At that time he thought that.
“I guess, but I can like you like that.”
“But I don’t have a pussy.” Akram did not know the proper term was “vagina” he thought the name meant that something whiskers as cat-face was something girls got when they were older.
“I don’t think that’s an issue.”
“Will you kiss me again?”
“Can I?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it a bad kiss?”
“Is there a bad and good kiss?”
“Well, you shouldn’t let grown-up strangers kiss you that’s bad.”
“Oh, yeah.”

Akram nodding encouraged Fazi a bit so he kissed him again. Then looked at Akram. Akram seemed not too fazed by it anymore and nodded. Fazi kissed him again in that almost empty corridor. A janitor was lazily drowsy and didn’t care at all.

Seventeen year old Akram looks as Fazi as a friend. An older, cool friend. Fazi doesn’t therein lies a problem. When Akram allows Fazi to makeout with him it is mostly because he is bored and because he feels frustrated. Fazi knows their thing is not a relationship but he wants it badly to be one. He isn’t crazy about anyone as he is with Akram. As a kid he has been. Akram had gently tried to sever ties with them a couple of times. It has backfired a bit. Fazi was a bit more persistent and a bit too emotional prone to tantrums and outbursts but also that sly logic methodology of saying “let’s just be you got no one else” or “come on it’s not that much of a bad feeling right?” and Akram doesn’t know how to answer. At times he just says that he likes girls and wants to have a girlfriend to which Fazi laughs.

There was a time he was trying and Fazi had successfully sabotaged him getting a girlfriend. Akram was a bit timid. Was a bit introverted and at times too complacent so he didn’t always complain. Some of those girls were more people he thought he could bond with but realizing maybe she shouldn’t. But Mira was a different case. The young woman was four years older than Akram and two years older than Fazi. Mira was one of the reasons the so-called timid guy took on an older male (same-height) with more defined muscles at the time. Akram was a bit chubby at seventeen. Fazi had kissed Mira and had at one point successfully made her his girlfriend. It was, in his eyes, a test to show how “dubious” Mira was. Yet the case was that Mira had though Fazi was growing to like her and Akram had stayed quiet for he was shy.

It was that time that Akram took  a stand to ignore Fazi. Fazi was adamant to stay with him but after some scuffles (which Fazi tried to alleviate sometimes by kissing) it was apparent that Akram and he were through.

Seeing Akram after all these years made Fazi’s heart leap. What was it that leaped really at times he could not tell…as in his heart leaped but something else. He had never really explained to Akram why he had loved him and ironically Akram had accepted that love without much probing or question. They have never had sex. They had however done some other things (mostly insinuated by Fazi). Akram was getting married to Mira. He was thirty-two years old and Fazi was thirty-four. Fazi has had only casual sex with people these days: both sexes. Yet, he had recently started seriously dating a person called Nibhay, who was the a year younger than him and had moved out to stay in the city with Fazi because he preferred him and loved him (stating that he exclusively loved males).

Seeing Akram Fazi could not resist but kiss him. Amateurish and awkward. Like that first time. That is when Fazi shamefully admitted to himself how wonderfully unrequited this was, without redamancy. It did not censure affection, maybe allowed sexuality but it was not the love he had wanted. Akram allowed that kiss; participated in it. As a liberation. All those years ago he participated to understand the same wave encaptured it now. For Fazi it was a good goodbye to a something that had no working or destiny. For Akram it was an end of an age of confused wanting and frustrations and feeling his wishes neglected. It was a complacency coming to an end. Both were cleansing out a selfish knot that was binding them.

Soon they raised their cups of lassi for a toast. Lingering on lips was the coyness of foams gone and foams to come.▬

 *Authors note: When I write fictional pieces I will label them as “fictionic” from now on 🙂

drunk-suckled

 

suppose you had kissed me then with your wide-eyed, wide-toothed sclera
reigning into a hypersegmented reality where you and I only exist as bodies
to be bathed and  sauteed with pleasure and all orgasms quick paced melodies
and branching into a rhizome filled bacterial larvae and you tell me “it’s never enough…”

not out of chance yet out of some folly of your heart you tied with a string
and you gazed at me longingly my genitilia some sort of bouncing heart beat
that a voyeur’s paradisiacal sonnet had: crept me into the spaces of your monologues

truth is that I am not only a body cremated at pleasure’s pyre on some pole where your lips
touched and gazed and gazed and gazed — I crept up as a vine but I have my trees you don’t know.▬

40 Free Serif Fonts to Download – Vandelay Design | Vandelay Design

 

I am  a fontophile. I seriously am. I love looking for fonts of both sans-serif type (rounded fonts like the classical Verdana, a childhood favourite) and serif fonts (another childhood favourite was Georgia). I really love combing the web for exquisite fonts. Here is a bundle of deliciously sex serif fonts with their reserved or open arched grooves, excellent curves and flexibility, strength and tenacity; with masculine and feminine flair I want to share this.

 

40 Free Serif Fonts to Download – Vandelay Design | Vandelay Design.

isolation in quotes

what do “I” call myself? — a labyrinthine thinker, late bloomer prodigy,
a colloquial slut, a porn actor/actrice, a menagerie of moods, a glass fountain,
a granite slab of boredom, an equanimous person, likely to succeed/fail, tagger of
facebook slogans or pages, popular only in staying unpopular, a blood cycle, a sperm
cycle, a gestation of uneasy testosterones or a nest of comfy oestrogen — what am I?

asking is imperative; you cannot be classes you have to be a class, not a binomial variant,
but a simultaneous crack-whore who can easily be cancelled linear-wise and not charted
in graphs — and the graphs all mounted highs and lows like some floppy or quick erectile tissue
bounded by some bondage mechanism easily quacking or nervously fretting — yeah our so-called
civilized world transcribes to the sexual all too quickly yet will not transcribe to intimacy or a
reproduction of kisses because to the mythical layman fucking is as easy than typing 2+2=1

we are isolated by so much wave and wires — first by seas and mountains now the technical metaphors
of technology; it;s easy to build walls you just need crude, undisciplined yet disciplined, refined geometry:
we learn math in isolation was not Alice there telling the Queen that for to her a jabberwocky is a parable
not a persistent lover of existence. We learn languages in isolation, fruit of needs are supposedly tasted and
tested in a bedroom — when have we so easily conquered all human instincts and personality checks and put
them airtight into a bottle as though everything and anything was masturbation. If I am vulgar you were vulgar
by lacking vulgarity by never breaching or broaching subjects that could make me spill my coffee but be grateful
I had sipped and dined with you in a natural state — and by natural state I do not easily picture you in your
birthday suit happily playing the flute of your clitoral-erection or playing drums with your bosom-chest…yet
you want me to easily think that — when I am flawed will you not know my flaw and tell me so why wither
it as a flaccid beam of self-denial — yeah, I talked all innuendo-like; it’s a language we all easily adopt too
though I think millions never adapt nor else we wouldn’t cry in tissue papers hoping it was the tender skin of
a lover…

why are all our information and acts and knowledges isolated; even with modern precepts of civilization
we love playing colonial pipes, steal the lands of many, decrepit the food and bones of the different,
make outsiders more than insiders and treat wealth the money as though it was a concubine that gave us
all the frenzies our heart desired — we are training ourselves to think heights are step-ladders and all binaries
are trusted celebrities though we all aspire some balance in ourselves. When did we become consumers?  Merely
eaters? Not inventors or hunters or gatherers or builders? — Is only the daft eating the way f the world? Are we only
engineers of a time-stinking buffet or rather a potpourri of so many essences and open to the architecture of the many?
Should we not rinse our tongues and teeth to the palpable instead of the vacuous? I ask myself questions, even dumb stupid
ones that are trivial and exhaustive but only because I think I was born to be hunter not predator or prey. But a gatherer
of immutable gems parasailing in a mutable universe… the scents and dotages of those exquisite structures with their
non-structure and flexible narrations have made me both weep and be teem with adrenalin. I do not think the deforestation
of the mind with conformed categories can easily help. Core beliefs are beautiful but they inhabit more ample space than we
give them credit for; our bones are calcium arranged as leaves of variables…how lovely was this trail of stones and bread…

and because I have these thoughts I may be isolated called mad by peers and hated by equals in class, birth, jobs, counter tables
for I did not drink coffee with cream and sugar but wanted to try a honeyed mix and that made a different in the tongue-nectare
made me mongrel to the refined and I do not know what more I could do — did I not also taste that coffee republic, nod to a placebo,
in the world of narcotics and so much medicinal shots. When I meet others who liked coffee and tea like me would we recognize
each other skins, meats and marrows or has the narrow cubicles sealed that kiss? Wonder if isolation is the new economy of trade…▬

Fragmentory 1

 

She once kissed the sun. It was tailored under window glass. Sliced into spots. For her pleasure. Then it was gone. As easily it had risen. Storm wafted in gray smoothness and polished the gold. No, she was not disappointed. Hungering for both storms and sun is like going against the Manicheanistic prospects of life. Life as a social production; life as capital of capitalism and the bickering of socialism. It was as if she was pining for both lover and husband in the person that she craved. They say both cannot coexist; then she remembered the sunspots and trusted even more they could. God shown with nature that it could exist and she questioned why was it feared? The existence of two together. Why was labeling in the apex of discrete and discretion rather than a more luminous and dark pitched Night. Was not night and moon the biggest paradox one could imagine? The softness of a crescent itself defies how a full becomes a curve and a curve becomes a circle. Both complete. Both alarmingly present. And yet this night was called by Hellenistic successors as women’s quarters; relegated and suffocated and brought out no more  than a manifestation of infestation and damnation; what contradiction and stupidity is raised. As storm raged and raged and sang and sang in its gusto to swoon clouds and water she felt the fusions of thoughts and emotions. As Night settled in its tones of deep blue, gray and black with highlights of lightnings here and there and petrichor perambulations made its way into the food, hearts and blood of people around with her adjoined she felt a corporeal bliss with an incorporeal promise.