confessions (ii)

Today I wanted to shake hands with a girl in a lecture. She seems uncomfortable and uninterested; she had bright red hair, coloured as a cherry. She spoke on Jeanette Winterson. On gender. And I didn’t impress her. I was just there. I was just an odd person. The guy who sat next to me just walked away not caring of me. And my flatmates don’t seem to think I am great either. I feel like the fool.

Well, today I talked to the cherry redhead. She seemed to reciprocate my conversation. My flatmates are becoming responsive too. I guess I needed time. I am not saying that I blew them away or impressed them. But one of them thought it was okay to feed me a raspberry with her own hand in my mouth. The gesture was so caring and thoughtful. It brings tears. Right now. Another shared her dinner with me. You know I am just really happy because it is really pleasing to have have that really.

I guess I was really interested in Cherry (I will call the redheaded girl that). Cherry seems to be really thin. Like she has no weight. Compared to me who packs extra pounds. Cherry has immaculate white skin. She wore a jacket today, a black blouse which has t-shirt sleeves and is not willowy but cut midriff, I saw the accentuation of her bones and her tiny waist. Her long legs and hip to half-knee length green skirt skirted around my head as brilliant aesthetics. The cold did not bother her waifish frame. My fats are stored but tickled by the breeze. Her resistance and buoyancy to the cold made me so impressed. Cherry has a sweet tone too. She seems shy but attentive. The problem is I guess we are all shy. I wanna talk to Cherry more as her research is on gender and all about the fluidities and fixities of gendered spaces, or so she talks on. Which is impressive. I wanna know more people on campus.

The funny thing is that the guy who seems aloof of me still seemed aloof of me today. Like it is his intention to avoid me and I decided that okay if that is what he wants sure. I mean, today he came into the foyer and acted like he didn’t know me, wouldn’t meet my eyes, and then asked where I liked to which I casually replied. I do not appreciate behaviour like this. I do not know is it something I did or said. Or, if he is also being shy but right now I cannot process this. I have no time and I have ample work that needs doing.

I know I am not special. I know I may lack a lot of basic skills. Also, compared to others I am not that intelligent. However, I am human. And I deserve basic human empathy and kindness. And so does everyone.

 

forgotton, write

I have forgotten how to write; I borrow from words of favourite authors or poets, online, offline, in print — I stalk, in a friendly way, the vocabulary emitted by friends in the ozone as my side of the world looks at needing patches of effusions on that crystalline-dark matter of a magically scientific field that puts us under some other feelings like the six degrees of separation; I lust after knowledge, under both the labels of the arcane and the modern: a suddenness makes me me feel unhappy, a preparation makes me unhappy.

I have forgotten how to write. So I look at wordpress pages, tumblr posts and reblogs and quotes to feed this appetite in me whose parenthesis seems to be only craving but non-sustainable; my eco-green planning turning to urbane shanty — I look for verdian pots in fanfiction oeuvres and cul-de-sacs of myself and others. I read old work of others, and new, revisit old haunts and seem to find new. I write fanfiction myself because a novel is not for me now though a fanfiction with my own ideas is writing especially if the story of the original is filled with ambiguity (fanfiction on all genres, shows, formats is writing even if it’s 50 shades of practice).

I have forgotten how to write. That is poem seems so bad. I am sorry if I am not witty. But I have never truly boasted intelligence unless it be boasted for me. And all the mathematicians and physics majors and physicians and doctors and lawyers and engineers whose crafts matter more than mine I wonder how in that quantum googolplex do my profession really counts? To the modern mind I may be dumb and pretty obsolete like a cartographer sailing seas using the stars when there are radio shacks and lighthouses on a whimsy. Yet I cannot be a cartographer for the moon, for that would probably be a cartographer for billetdeaux.

I have forgotten how to write. Yet I imagine faces of the moon as one large phasic typewriter. And somewhere along Mars neophyte water sprites may be becoming molecules for new, imaginary oceans.▬

Perhaps, I have forgotten how to write…▬

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.▬

writing about writing + a brief interlude through my mind thinking + some other stuff

sometimes in the clearing away of it
I see other mists — retractable wrists
opening into a marrow-song; it’s how I write
how I swerve into cul-de-sacs and tenable meadows
or can move from this and that freely…

sometimes my hands fascinate me
with their imperial thrones of bones and knuckle-busts
prancing or swaying, or sashaying or ridgeting riveting
in their own little landscape of hills and chasms; the original manifolds
the n-dimensional or called the hand helping them know mutation and staticity
via practice and kingdoms of versatile muscle and cranial conducts
with a few string theory notes mapping out heart territories

freedom formed a calm radius
a protractor mowed the lawns
yet I saw the vectors and vertices subtly skimming
parched my mouth enough to thirst their tongues
something complex in the daily humdrum of rare and ordinaries

sometimes, or perchance all the time I am a hourglass shifting out and in, into myself
it’s like breathing but unlike creating I think it builds cells bonded with oxygen to also flatland universes where my geometrical thoughts reach higher quadrants but also can be trapped
in the murderous grasps of the one-power of a decagon module of space…

there is no ink, but there is fibrous ink, backlit LED buttons. That ask me to tap not hold and scribble — what is modern and what is ancient here? Is it the caveman sort of way that it feels like I am also using the new archetype of stones and sometimes going back to the chisel or is it both for the cursors or the vertical space on the screen that helps highlight and punctuate my act of writing…what about that? I sample the box and what is inside and outside of the box. Paper bleeds and screens permeate other screens making a meshwork of digital blots that we call net…after all blood and ink rival water with their oceanic enormities of principles and prokaryotes-eukaryotes of layers of raw materials and symbolistic jargons.

Is sometimes akin to aether-DNA transcribed and transmitted through my writing? Does imagination also has a codex, a bestiary, a collection of nomenclatures, another manifestation or reification of DNA? Perhaps it does…after all my I fingerprint my keyboard buttons everyday…modernity has called that the new lock-key…which may have also been another interpretation of bone and marrow or muscle and veins…

a cryptographer of symmetries coming from both perceived aysses and assymetrical spaces…mosaic builds on the geometric… you are always a contextual tabula rasa or something like that…

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.

Abbu, my Father, passing away.▬

Yes.  That is the reality I am made to  accept.  Yes. The reality is my father passed away. Abbu/Abba — the words in my language for “Father” — has passed away on the 24th  of February, 2015. Then a  friend in way of conversation had brought up something I forgot; I finished my education, gave my thesis presentation on the 24th of December, 2014. My Abbu was so happy he said “I will buy you what you want.” because I did well and I got a new desktop. I couldn’t even use it for a month.  My Abbu died before even a month happened I was able to use. He died exactly two months after I finished my thesis.

The word “Father” means a lot of things. We have our denotations, our connotations, our narratives — the word “Abbu” also entails the same concepts only “Abbu/Abba” allows formality of the title and the casualty of expression to coexist. Father does not entirely. Father has an absence and a presence demonstrating a distance either out of respect, fear, handling of authority, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (My Abbu loved The King and I and he loved the actor’s acting of the king).  “Abbu/Abba” allows that Patriarch’s respective dues but allows an open narrative kind of like open source fonts. It is a fusion terminology that elevates the stature already pre established. The word equivalent to “Father” in Bangla is “Pita” but this is more of the vernacular’s written script and not a spoken concept. “Baba” can assuage its capacities and I hardly ever called Abbu Baba unless it was in a jokingly tone of endearment.

Like the mixed languages and syntaxes of how I spoke my  Abbu and I had this weird netting of a relationship. At times I became his counsel, other points (mostly, most of the times) he became mine. We became each other confidants. Assuring each other. Of trivialities, of seriousness, of chances of comedies and ironies that would iron out the banalities of life.  My Abbu had a bypass surgery 9.2 years  ago; this November would have marked his  10th year. Post-surgery and even pre-surgery my Abbu lived a healthy and active life — more healthier and active than his sedentary, daydreaming daughter. He exercised and ate well enough but also  gave more restrictions on himself than his doctors did. He was not happy that he had a bypass. He had diabetes before but did all that could be done humanly possible to exercise and eat with reason and combat his disease. He wanted to keep some of his life in his control knowing that all life is dictated and ended by Allah Almighty he also understood that Allah Almighty rewarded patience and perseverance. That Allah Almighty allowed some chances of our life in our hands as Allah Almighty is kind like that. At age 40 he also  developed pressure problems, before his bypass, and this additionally made him sad. Truth is both his mother and father side of the family has an umbrella of cardiac diseases and weight related diseases. My Abbu was the youngest in his  family.  I am too the youngest of my family (concerning cousins and even my only sibling). My Abbu had a younger sister but she died after 40 days due to my Dida (paternal Grandmother)  having developed high diabetes and unfortunately she inherited it via birth. All these genetical issues are a metaphorical cancer that kills you from the inside, gradually. My Abbu was at times heavily depressed that he had diabetes and said he wouldn’t wish it and this lifestyle on his worst enemy.

That is how beautiful, kindhearted, generous, open minded, benevolent, creative, intellectual, cerebral  and honest my Abbu was and is.  I am proud to know a soul, a man, of such caliber, who supported people, who wasn’t chauvinistic in the slightest, who had feminist but also masculinist ideals, who  cared for people socially and hated injustices and bigotry. My father was a great Muslim. He hated extremism, he  hated hegemony and useless hierarchies.He was also a just and great businessman. Who payed for some families entirely so they could support their households. Gave Zakat (religious mandatory charity for the well-off) and more than the prescribed amount. Helped orphanages and madrasas by not only feeding those children but also  buying them clothes. He never stole from anyone. He liked small businesses and hated the internalised duplicity of corporations. When I think of my father I think warm as honey and sun; not stern  but encapsulating stars of a million different nebulas. My Abbu is a diverse spectrum of light that could make envy many cosmos. Now  he is with Allah Almighty and surely all the angels think he is a large chunk of cosmic integrity, sagacity and warmth with the cool zephyrs of an universe in dance.

When I think of Abbu I think warm. Like the  blue you feel when you see a slice of sky half-asleep or after a well-rested sleep, where your consciousness feels complete. That warmth. My Abbu loved blue. I do too.  I also love green which is said to be Prophet Muhammad’s (P.B.U.H.) favourite colour. It is also  the colour of prosperity, verdian landscapes and all things in abundance. I hope my Abbu is  experiencing blues that our eyes can never see in this plane  of existence; that his immortal life of the Hereafter is so beautiful that no want is ever left incomplete or no desire is left only full but goes beyond completion, to an apotheosis that cannot be understood by us who still talk with mortal tongues and stand on mortal spines. I hope my Abbu is experiencing the Zenith of his Being and that he is enjoying time with Allah Almighty and many others.

Abbu is comfort to me. So all my nostalgia of him is comfort. He bought me things. He knew what I wanted to buy; no, it isn’t always  expensive things. Last vacation he insisted before I could say it, “Why don’t you buy those Hello Kitty plushies.” (not verbatim but what he said) That is an honest,  clean rib-caged hearted thing. He bought me the set because it was cute and something fathers like for their daughters.

You know what I will miss. The twilight-glowing late afternoons sitting with Abbu and us enjoying tea. Abbu and me. Juxtaposed like some alphabets in proper or messy tangible order. Perfectly written and spoken that no handwriting or font or vocal capacity can ever hope to fully replicate. Either he was awake or napping after the tea. Me on the  laptop.  Loving that day can be both bright and subtle. That is how Abbu was too.  And that is how  we are, together. It is just too intense at the same time so faint like  a sunspot that lands and flutters on a butterfly’s symmetry.

I was sitting on my Abbu’s chair a day or two ago. Reminiscing, in pain, palpitating, and this scene from one of my favourite movies and my Abbu’s  came… it is from The Yearling by  Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings:

somewhere beyond the sink-hole…
…past the magnolia, under the live oaks…
…a boy and his yearling ran side by side, and were gone forever. (https://prezi.com/ibu8eniu621c/the-yearling/)

That somewhat describes my feelings. It is  both sad but beautiful. I felt that come, and go and come back. The feeling of pure love transposed and transcendented time.

I actually had a experience in real life like that with my Abbu. Past 8pm in my neighbourhood when it was still non-cosmopolitan and more residential. Abbu coming out. Young and fit. I am but just a small fawn of around 6-8  years. Abbu asking me he is going to Filmfair: do I want anything? I say Beauty andthe Beast — he got it for me in VHS.

But as he was leaving to go. I saw his back walking.  Receding but also strolling. Into a darkness not dangerous. Canopied and veined by trees,  whose shadows chase each other as lambs in an open field. I was cycling in my bike  away.  Yet, I saw him disappear. Waiting for him to  come home.  With the tape but the tape is also his love personified. When he came back  we entered the house together.  Or a bit within some minutes.

That is a powerful memory Allah Almighty gave me. It is a beautiful thing that a language cannot fully explain so you must open all your heart, mind, soul and spirit to understand it.

May Allah Almighty Give My Abbu Jannat ‘ul Firdous (Highest Heaven,  the 8th Heaven). AMIN.

Abbu, one day soon, hopefully, under Allah Almighty’s Mercy, we will walk those silhouetted trees together again…▬

fighting and fight

tiddles of my expectations; ruptured like glass within glass, an imploding babushka-vortex
teeming is my rhythm of depression, like a knife that knows butter, knows the meat
sabotages the flesh, the artery, the blinking electrical impulses of a thing it corners as refuse
— it’s  my heart you bloody, selfish cancerous tumour that looks like an organic part of me
who refuses to shelter and instead makes bridges by my splintered bones; you capsized me
tore me from limb to node yet you refuse my simple, basic right to speak…you will now taste
my armageddon you tattered porcelain who preaches facetious causes I will cause you writhe
and rattle as the serpent you are — your apocalypse is not only salvation; I will know my sanctum
pure when you are purged from the altars of my consciousnesses;  my soul’s cathedral will know chimes.▬