test me at your own risk

 

I am tired getting crap and stings and slings and blows
from the bad moods of other people
they can do what they want
who rename carpe diem to crap-on them?

I am not your bodily bag to punch
know that I am more volcanic than a meteor
I will push you to extinction

don’ t test me

Slights or the inconveniences of childhood

There is something about a “slight” — you know a slight happens because it was always sideways aggression. It has been around and you sort of meandered into it. I have faced this gesture before, this action: in all explicitness, it is both “gesture” and “action”, both nonverbal and verbal. Slights are gestures as in they are meant to gesticulate a form of forced negativity. An action as it is subconsciously present and soon consciously put into a form of practice. I had understood I had been slighted by a bunch of undergraduate students at a party. And I know why this had happened. It happened for many reasons: one is considering intelligence, the other is social magnetism and the other is a perceived insult.

To talk on “considering intelligence” is to extrapolate on ideas about how odd you may think another person’s “nerdiness” or “geekiness” is. If you have perceived intelligent you may easily ostracised or rather a good talker in conversations. Now, I am not being egotistical but being considered nerdy or geeky can be a considerable threat to people who are still learning to learn their own skins and flesh. And being able to communicate ideas effectively is also considered a big deal. Especially if you are a migrant, especially if you are there to help make a framework of privilege, when that is defied people are automatically threatened.

I am South Asian. I have an americanised accent. I am a geek and nerd who is comfortable around strangers in a party and able to talk to them. Without the drink. I can act zany and be in tune with who I am. Also, I am much older but I apparently never look that age.

This is perceived threatening to people. I am an odd creature. I am like a somnambulist in a crowd of dreamers.

And so they decided to ask me multiple times to come to a club with them. I agreed.

When the time came they left without me.

And then when I just said “hi” on facebook they proudly stated they went.

It was a slight if not fully intended. It just was in their minds. They didn’t like me. I am good as a theory (they wanted me to hook up with a dude, I specifically said “are you trying to ship me with him?” they said “yes”) but I am not palatable as a praxis (seeing me with a bar with them).

I write this because you may be slighted not because you are an undesirable but rather you may have traits that are desirable to a certain point. People, I was told, liked to bold, chivalric and interesting without having to giggle, drink and play the clown. However, this doesn’t happen easily rather it takes a lot of few to get down to it. So, if anyone defies this logic it is a threat to a person’s way to function through that precarious position of partying and socialising.

I did not write them to elevate my status or condescend anyone. I wrote it as I was once bullied so much it was good to know that exclusion, as in social exclusion, is not really someone’s fault. After all a collective is not an individual’s choice. It is the choice of the collective. So, many a times, you are not responsible at all for being not accepted. It just happens.

survival via paragraphs.—

How I feel, is not necessarily connected to what I would prefer to think
How I operate, is not necessarily my personality;
I am clueless, a writer’s block in motion
“cock-cunt” blocking my potentials that I did not know
— do not know, how to exactly cultivate…
and I feel lonesome all the time…lonesome in my blood
like some odd sterile-vaccination to another incubation
an incubation that waits in the wings; I am a mouth full
of disjointed feathers; corporeal but not blood-stained
they inhibited the concept of death, in my mouth the feathers
waxen and wane like flowers in bloom and they recycles as
cat-got-tongue sort of feats…I am just sad, I am just lonely,
I lost that person close to me — Abbu, Dad, I don’t want to believe
that you don’t walk beside me — that all these journeys are now
mine alone. And I am not happy always alone. I feel angry.
This month I had procrastinated to daydream — been unable to
fit the home model of me in this new home. And it does hurt.

But who is willing to understand?

Not everyone will get it. They manage. They think you will. The same.
the same ways; nothing new — as the human world forgot the existences
of biodiversity. I have been unmade or made into plankton. Into a unicellular being by ennui and loneliness. I can’t withstand this need to be more as I do not know how the future will be cunning — how it takes my fate with a grain of salt? I will be the Red Sea motherfucker you will see how I wash you with salt and caribous and whales and I am not going to make a whale of and effort doing so — I am lost but have not lost. I feel cold but I am not numbed yet bastards! I did not wish to be trouble but I became trouble because I always yearn for what other people are taught to detach — the search of intimacies, the search of love, the search of sacred sex, a life beyond gendered expectations. I think people use all that is normative as manipulations, as fetishisms, but I do not know honestly how to be honest with those — I could only be me and outlast the lingering eye of discriminatory tastes. I yearn to talk, to think, to not be betrayed by obscene friends who had lived a life but chose to thwart mine.

I know I am no poetry in motion.

That I was chipped from the start, weakened already, I am no IQ wonder no genius in a refrain, waiting for a right chord to strike. I have no serpent’s tooth, no cunning fox with no tale. How I operated was survival and lacking what I needed to survive at best. How I feel is just the dregs of disatisfaction. Nothing in me on this was apt to binary. I was happy too to have heating when the minus degrees struck and food in the fridge. I wished I knew how to transmute disappointments in life as talismans of the future. Or, maybe I am learning the art but have not mastered it enough yet? — I hear distant city-life outside, echoing, wailing, demanding to be heard. Am I demanding to be heard?  — I am wailing on poetry, but the poem was also a soft pinch on your thigh, a flirtatious revenue to ask “look, at me, I am talking, but I also look nice when I breathe.” I am like the existential ugly duckling, waiting to swan and swan dive out of abyss, into it and peripheries and centers and all. Clipped wings may be coined for the so-called well grounded. I rather file them, adjust the bluntness and sharpness, so that walking, floating and flying can be done with chimerical speed. I speed into God; I know God will speed into me…—

When Is It Okay To Call A Woman A Whore? | Thought Catalog

Kim Davis, who opposes gay marriage, committed adultery, divorced three times, and had kids out of wedlock.

Source: When Is It Okay To Call A Woman A Whore? | Thought Catalog

This article is more about how Kim Davis should be talked on about her misusing her power and that, as quoted:

Anyone who thinks Liberals and Conservatives are morally distinct should think again. People are terrible all over and they’ll say whatever suits them at any given moment without any fear of being logically or morally inconsistent. Are you a Liberal woman? Believe in female autonomy and the right to divorce and have kids whenever you want? That’s fine, unless you do something other Liberal people don’t like. Then you’re a whore. Now that is hypocrisy.

I think this a problem we all face. Yes you can critique her on that if she is so conservative why is she like that but thinking of this as abling to brand her a “whore” is non productive I believe. Yes Davis should be criticised heavily on her homophobic nature and she should also be criticised on misusing her power, being mean to people in general. However, I do not necessarily think shaming her marriages to four guys and all should be really put up. One can question her that if she has the right to do then why can’t people have their rights too. That if she is able to do that so should everyone else.

what I am feeling like right now + maybe this won’t be me 5 years from now, I am hopeful

sometimes I wondered if I lived a life or a margin in some ideological footnote
a mundane little hum that could be erased by the dust that is at the corners
of some sanguine hourglass where the glass knew me as some distant microbe
not too tough to taste but gelatinous enough to stick and not stray — I never think
I had a “I” defined enough by extremes I am sometimes akin to a medium, an equatorial
belly slivering off like some snail on a razor-blade and even then the blade’s blunt vortex
knew my slime and saliva enough to not prick my already molluscsal  body which became a
monolith of paranoia and weird-strange delusions and illusions; vapours in some steam-dye of
existence I never known or really pined for. The sexual for me, the breathing for me, the longing
at me — it’s pretty mundane. Human interactions fail me. I may be too eccentric and that does not
fascinate even in the Dickensian  way and Dickinson, Emily would probably be better at subtleties and
reclusivity than me. I am a portal to nowhere, even black holes may avoid me. I do not think I could bend
light and gravity like that rather I make it feel like it was falling, as though one was in sleep, only to wake-up
concrete in lying down but not so vigilant enough to stand better after that encounter; a purgatory between living and
a something that has no name but really feels like levity got some bastards trying to pick me apart: I am sad not ungrateful.
I have my health I suppose, could be pounds less and fitter yet maybe I am just a boredom coin or some coin of old and new

playing in a faraway fertile jukebox that no one can hear except some cosy stars distant in length and breadth but too are dreaming.▬

1st Eid without my Father

from Eid to Eden — I nurtured a song that was both a vigil, an explosion of prayers like
stardusts and moon-crescent globes all appearing in a wave, in a cool yet warm succulent slice
— this is the first Ramadan where I fasted and feasted without my familial Father; always spearheading
the sojourn of the ordinary and splendid like a perfect kaleidoscope; dancing and twirling more lucid and sane
than celluloid crackers but knowing great Western films and histories of Bengal and its cinematic prose, like tongue-buds ready to
erupt in flavours. The crescent moon are the lashes of a sigh I know that  the orb around is a miniature of my eye. I love you Abbu —
I will miss you till I know death maybe then you will be there helping me know the prose of my own last sigh.▬

How friendship is a “non-friendly” babushka doll concept

The french word “Être” is a multitudinous organism. It has multiple applications but it’s general English meaning is “to be” — yeah, despite French’s concreteness which is shared by many languages the word “to be” is as flexible as the circumflex across its head. The French poet, Andre Breton, had written the poem, The Verb To Be, with all intentions, to talk about the multitudinous ways he feels despair. I am not one who clings to despair much. I think that life is meant to be lived. Hope is important, more Être than despair. This does not mean I do not have periods of despair or mock and condescension those to whom despair is known.

What to me matters is that like the verb “to be” friendships are “to be” as zigzaggy and slopey as that circumflex carrying verb. Friendship is a noun. It has its adjective and its verb. Yet it entails a concept that is not always concretely defined. It needn’t be nor should it be for each person has a flexible way of being friends. However, friendship is more difficult at times  than romance and love and erotic engagements. I finally understand why people say it is hard, genuinely so, at times, or maybe forever, to be friends with a lover or spouse. Not that it’s impossible or non-probable. But maybe their friendship styles are not to them definable as successes or things they enjoy all the time.

Friends have a license to be  at times inordinately insensitive, narcissistic, self-centered and rude. Of course, your good friends won’t really be this all the time or maybe never. You can’t manage a relationship of the romantic/erotic/love sort with those qualities. Not that romantic relationships are dishonest. They are not designed to be dishonest either unless you make them so. It’s just in those relationships humans automatically attempt to be the best they can be. And that is why love like that is prized.

In friendships we sometimes don’t make the effort. We do annex and arrest a person’s  threshhold of understanding. As in we can take advantage of it. This is “honesty” too just not of the best policy sort. Because we inadvertently do at times act pretty mean to our friends, feeling that their patience and love, will undoubtedly not create a rift.

This is to an extent understandable. It is why friendship encompasses the wide berth of empathy and sympathy. However, this is also someething that can get out of control.

We all love Joyce’s Ulysses and maybe even tamper Finnegan’s Wake. We also love Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Orlando. However, those too are given to syntax and grammar of its own that does thoroughly negate the necessity of a common language. The individual inflections pass in between those patchworks and thus a novelistic narrative of friendship  is constructed and maintained.

If you circumvent that your friendships will imminently, inevitably suffer.

It is both classical prose with neo-avante grande or postmodernist punctuations that make each friendship. Uniqueness cannot be discrete from all commonality and divorced from the lateral conceptions of attributes as caring and solidarity.

In the video game Outlast: Whistleblower, a prequel and interquel-paraquel of the game Outlast, the protagonist Waylon Park writes in a note that his wife, Lisa Park, had said that he was too “literal” and went for “if-then statements” — he with a lot of gravity realises that things are not like that. That becomes tautological almost. Though Waylon is a mathematician/mathematical genius of sorts I am not. However, I did share this propensity at times with “if-then statements” in certain regards.

It’s like  “attention+care=trust”, I was foolish to believe it would always go like that. People can be cruel or I can mess up and then not be forgiven. I forgot that “être” was around and that it was a free radical, a  morpheme, a part generative grammar borderlining the boundaries of didactical syntax. People are too complex and complicated. Both in good and bad ways.

Each friendship is like a babushka doll, unearthing each layer takes the pulley system of string theory (romance is also like that but I guess we also correspond to it faster).

This is both a beauty and tragedy of friendships.

Depends on the contexts, subsequent sequences or non-chronological chain of events.

Depends on the words you made known and unknown.

something about being friends

 

hoping you would understand the relevance of me
carrying a slight dash of your tears in my eyes
for a grief given to you to yet I cried…hoping that weeping for you
adjusted that atlas weight you carried…

chaptering on some faraway wishes, I thought we were “we”
did not mean to be just a “we” as a classical number pair
imagining that all this affection would not affect what I called “you”

maybe, you style in a way that means you are “hearty” with some distance
you congruent some distance to build an appetite, for maybe, you feel words
need to be stored to be used like harvests of  autumnal spring

but I don’t think we are always reading the same page with same accents
scuffing in my tongue becomes quicker, you bend your more sylph anatomy
you know the rush of adrenalines , madnesses and clean hearted work
maybe on maybe I am just too much of a child, for me friend is like skylines, an everyday…▬

vowels

learning about the syntax, the basic units of affection
pitch perfect  from the beginning of beginnings
you are one of my root languages
we adhere to a shared topography

learning about shadows and silhouettes from you
the inner light they radiate; the aura of things blended in darkness
non-sequestered from good: a vocabulary esoteric but also mainstream
calling you “Dad” is a populist thing — how funny it is, how ironic, that words
can marginalise, limit and go beyond the very anatomy of their morphologies…

you are Dad-fixed, a biological marker, a genetic code that won’t be adverbed away,
a phenotype inheritance; a structural will you weaved subconsciously into my bones and I
did so too…we are like a chess board incomplete with each other…

and maybe the theatre of sky and the amphitheatre of the soil cannot encompass you
because I cannot always encompass you; we are both a wind we breathed and exhaled,
inhaled again like a mountain ridge path. I know that what we had is irreplaceable because it is
a womb participation; you did carry me for nine months by constantly caring about Mom.

and this ribcage will have a bird that sings; a song so plainly beautiful, for it is you and me
Father and  Daughter always and I don’t think a bird like that will stop singing, anytime soon
we will have our oceans and our swimming in them, we will have our sunset afternoons, drinking
tea in them and knowing that warmth is always catalysed by warm company. As you once spoke:
” A candle doesn’t lose its fire by lighting  up another.”

and I wonder which constellations you have lit up, lightened up and now also light in
this inward astronomical that you also know me in, lit up in me with paternal, pure, parental
love. I know how to love also from you. Love is a dedication. Love is both the spine, tail and the brain
with the heart; I cannot repay you for such vowels…

— I love you Abbu

 

____________________________________________________________________

The companion piece with Mari Sanchez Cayuso’s “Consonants“. Both are poems grieving our Fathers and showing our love to them. My Abbu passed away on the 24th, February, 2015 at around 5.00-5.30pm. I miss him every single day. I love you Abbu very much. May Allah Almighty always make you happy.