There was anger that had to be expelled She grabbed the rusted aruvaal over which the grass had already grown How irritating it was to do the work once someone had reminded her Left to myself, just to left to myself she mumbled in rhythm with sharp arched blows she brought down on the erukampoo plant The fucking knife would keep turning to its blunt side the problem was her fucking wrist. No skill, no skill, she muttered, grabbing holding of a large branch She twisted it till it yelped and yanked it off the plant. The first smile for the day. White powdery milk smeared on her By the time she had uprooted the entire plant, she looked like a white lady enjoying a sunny afternoon. Someone had told her the milk was poisonous if ingested, but she had used it to heal a large puss-infested wound under her left breast last Thursday. She could not understand why this plant had to die. She anyway went on to pull out its brother, grandmother and sister, left the lover for tomorrow.
the last story has convinced me to stick to this act of typing, writing. just keep it going. something managed to excite you now and that can’t be the end of it. now apparently there is a danger of thinking so aloud on the internet as i am making myself vulnerable to the evils of society – people stealing ideas. now, why have an idea if you are so bloody secure about sharing it? if you have an idea only for the sole purpose of making money the world really has no use for it, it helps only another person only in search of making more profit. if you have an idea to tell a story, and you’re not really wondering about how much money it’s going to make you than you worry about having the money to produce it, what’s the harm in sharing it. so what if someone steals it. the amazing thing about stories is that even if you steal from me and say it, or i steal it from you and i say it, we both can never say the same story, if all we are worried about or rather occupied about is storytelling.
now speaking about black holes. though i am not really up to date on scientific properties of it, the concept of a black hole just thrills me. the last story i wrote obsessed about this was… About a man who worked on creating the nuclear power plant and then retires with his lover to the greenery of the jungles in the Western Ghats for peace. Both of them build this box that magically devours everything in it to invisibility, even light. So, it is kept in this dark room. When his lover dies of some horrible painful skin allergy, he puts her in the box. Now a friend who visits him to give his condolences steals the plan for this bloody box and then it soon becomes a genocide weapon in this world, causing great amount of State-endorsed deaths. Later, after great protests, they dumped these boxes in the sea and everyday more of the sea disappears into these boxes, an eventual doom anyway awaits this world. The lonely scientist not able to face the guilt of having created this weapon, on one night, steps into the box himself. poof.
as you can there was no scientific enquiry, but rather a lash out on all kinds of injustice i saw happening in this world. even though i did say what i wanted to say, in retrospect, this story actually tells me i was fucked up in my head. i am fucked up in my head even now. black hole or no black hole this is what i have to see the end of. a narcissistic quest. what the fuck goes on in my head?
sudha is playing some videos that are raking up some unpleasant and equally pleasant memories. they are blowing through my head. the laughter in the room makes me blind. so vulnerable i am to such triggers. and usually what people think of me as is detached. i usually don’t stay around for dinners or lunches, go to reunions, funerals or marriages, engagements or showers. the only three social events that i feel okay in are arbitrary home parties in close friends’ houses, underground or over the ground raves, and cast parties. more than this i find very hard to extend myself. not because i am detached from these friends. instead, i actually think about my friends and family all the time, someone or the other is in my mind, i need only a certain smell or taste to trigger certain imageries.
It is the work of documenting, that has increased my faith in first hand information. Without experiencing it, and meeting a story face to face, we cannot take back any essence; forget giving it to others. The act of re-telling should be transparent.
facebook updated. this blogs hangs on my clothesline.
working on a documentary now. learning how to tell a story i don’t know yet. there are strings. they too, hanging.
they are haunting my head. they are in me, my printed body. they seem to have these voices, deep hidden stories, so many convictions, so many troubles, wherever whatever they are. My breathing patterns are heavier after sun down.
…there is this translucent purple beauty to this smile they share. sometimes, the skin on these faces ask me, ‘is there trouble in neglecting beauty products?’ the dusty photo on the wall, where the skin sits tells me that it has too many stories. i had the most horrible skin in my twelfth grade and first year college. it was rough, bulging with fat, and tired. i always feel i have seen too much. i don’t know if that is good or bad. i didn’t feel good in this skin. it took me four years to be happy with my face again. a thought:
every story walks past you. everything is a story. and each story has to be retold – expressed. to be freed. to walk on. to move on to someone else. stories are clouds of air walking around amongst us.
my partner, sudharshan, just showed me an hour back how gif animation sequences are created on photoshop. he said, probably i should try something.
picked a stork from one of my early sketches called story of the murderer
let’s see where this takes me tonight. click on image if the animation is not playing.
this has taken me more than an hour. but this is bloody addictive. still trying.
a series painted over the last few months of 2010
an obsession with hundred things eating our heads
my chance to eat a head inside my head