Deus Faber

Oh look, he come with snake.

gem-like flame

A patchwork quilt of verse that jumps, blotches of violent chrome paint, music that reverberates against the ribs, while beside on the bedside table, grapes, butter and coffee shall sit in wait; I shall make this and pull it over my head. Turn in for a month.

string theory

I like to begin

to unravel,

two strands of twine 

at a time:

It hasn't just begun, really. It's been 

Beginning.

When reef knot will not

do, stay. When

nothing will pass up

a kick, a poke, a friendly jab.

Stay. When

yoga or Carmine or chamomile

only tingles, only tangles 

only makes you dangle 

little longer.

Stay. Wear it 

down to the last thread; 

watch. Meanwhile,

pickle me pink.

en-grave

If a traveller does not meet with one who is his better, or his equal, let him firmly keep to his solitary journey; there is no companionship with a fool.

- The Dhammapada, 5.61

square B

No more excuses. No more, can't draw, can't write - oh no, no time -  I, gender-dubious underweight person, hereby commit myself to publishing Content, What? on a regular basis.

This is to be sandbox, scratch-pad, pilot episode of things to come. Assuming, of course (and now's the scary part) that you shall offer me regular feedback, shoves, reminders, ideas for forthcoming issues, criticism, love and cups of coffee. I'm terrible at self-publicity, and don't yet have the luxury of being blasé about it so consider this as abject a request for your attention as suits your need.

Thank you.

songs of akalpoush - i

PoV is pillion seat of cycle leaving village behind. Not levitation, though I wish. 

Text and Image (C) Deboleena Rakshit =D

janus

Sick to gills of 

prevarication 

hyperventilation 

circumlocution 

pretension - 

Balking at 

reef-knots 

cross-stitch 

knit knit 

purl purl.

Torch down your cave falls on nothing. No diamonds in your cobwebs. You can have your darkness and eat it too. Your messes, your trifles, your grey gooseberry dreams. Build your fortress, one paradox at a whine, and pout and stay put.

You, I want. I want, you. 

I want to drink your light in. 

The irradiation off your teeth teeth, 

the light that catches your iris, your luminous 

scrupulous skin. Come in, come in.

You threw me

In so deep, I'm struck mute. Wanting nothing. But Desire lit; now keener than a toothache. But desiring no more than that (not even) twelve-hour old smile, like a lamb but for the glint. Coarse, you. And beautiful like a stab, like a gasp. Like a singeing bay leaf, like the throb of vein on a straining forearm, like the smell of moss on a (just rained on) roof. You'll never read this and it's so ridiculous to strike off a month this deathly way, (and for what?) for a glint, a smile not twelve hours old yet.

There is a story to be told, but that must wait. There is your memory to fade, but for now, inane insane must do. Not that you'll know but you throw me back to first loves - इस बहाने अब मेरा चाँद होके नूर आए  - you threw me in, I forgot to breathe and it's so ridiculous because look, thirteen. Thank you thank you thank you (:

unavoidable.

Never rebel (no, please) - but must one not shrink, shrivel when everything is Superliked? Never misanthrope (peripheral babble is almost endearing) - but before bed, must one not ask, Where to now? Bile in mouth not so much because you don't see - but because (to think) I once thought you would. When you're your biggest disappointment, how to get erasure? When you're throwing up chillies and what were cashew nuts (mostly through nose), how to stop from hitting floor? The abiding thought - that seesaw of oneness (your breath smells of mine, I smile) versus that ache in bones, weighing every step down, muttering like a dammed sea of voices, O My People - is only biding time.

Someone's counting down somewhere, but meanwhile?, one could (with groan and creak and lumberjack pant) turn to resurrecting the premature dead and burying, and burying those who just won't. Worth a shot, the gun's gone cold after the world got- Yeh duniya agar mil bhi jaye to kya hai? Question is kya rooh pyaasi hi reh jayegi?

O People.

a brief meditation on the concerns that crowd hours of alleged study

It's called Bitch I know but the more I see of you the faster I recoil. Overwhelming gratitude at having fled while there was time. Internal Assessments have a nonpareil way of skewing schedules and priorities and making dust of mountains. You who were frightened of what would have been at Sixty-Four, can you see tomorrow? Too much solipsistic, this. I suppose because this is the Sorting after whole days of Picking. Besides, metonymy, dears. When I inspect my fingernail, it is in troth the landscape of your mind I ponder.

Now be nice and say Hell-oh.

the sky could be blue, i don't mind

What storm today. Grit and garbage cartwheeling, coming at teeth like missiles - but the wind outdoes, who cares? And I was clucking tongue, sigh, just the perfect day for long, long bus-ride and longer walk to end in hot tea and fried chicken, with your stories, but you haven't been writing so long. Everything else came. And like the gust, you did too.

Tonight's almost too beautiful to be borne.

seaside stories

We spent a June week near Puri this year. More the need to leave than the need to go somewhere, which gratefully, everyone in the family gets. Slightly itchy around the waistbands if there pass six months without a trip. That's when this first happened, among many others, the one I mean now is how we got on a boat, like every time, to bob up and down an afternoon away on a river. Except this time, slapped out of our siestas by salt that came at our faces like an epidemic of needles. The man grinned, we're here, take off shoes, please. Um, we're going to march into that pile of salt? - no, no, madam, take off shoes please.

We totter off boat, me grumbling mostly - what is this, the Satyagraha? was having such a nice dream too - the sand and salt are sharper than whale teeth, biting into calves, arms, back - should've come as an eskimo, grumble, skin is peeling off - the wind howls, tangible and sour and sticking to ear lobes like lice. We persevere; the man indefatigable. Dunes, look, dunes - stop being so cheerful, grumble. About six feet away, there's a fisherman tossing his nets in, his body pulling back in an impossible arc every few minutes and relaxing again as the net stayed suspended over his head for just a second, before falling into each gentle, identical splash - what is he catching I wonder, rock salt?

This time Ma glares, so I stop, we're almost at the peak of the hill of salt, when with an immense hush, the blinding wind dies down. We were on the other side. And there they were. Two seas and an ocean, the man grins. Without warning each of us runs out in separate directions; Didi is the one yawping, I think.

I try and find the middle of the circle and wedge heels in. Water gushing in, sand scudding away from between toes. Oldest, fondest memory. And that collective roar of oceanic exultation that no shell can quite contain. In minutes, it was probably about fifteen that I stood there, thinking it would be the most natural thing to wait patiently to be swept in. Just listen, Ma whispers from somewhere, just listen and watch and breathe in deeply. Remember it to that last, tiny crystal leaching your legs.

-- This afternoon - last afternoon, it's 4 in the morning holy cow - I finally earned myself a Wacom Intuos 4. Have drawn over twenty things since, but this is today's last. Reproduced inasmuch as can be with the reference image being only a memory and the skill being deplorably slow in progress.

i was probably more sun-burnt.

Life as an anachronism is more ebb than flow - dryer when the face that convinced you you were right changes its mind - but I know this: that for those few minutes that the world stood still, I possessed all.

tie up stray strands and go go go

Dangling on the fence, opinionating mise-en-scène, there are mists. The lake, the grass, the pavement ten feet away, brooding; shrouded. Fog, I wonder, now? It was nice talking, he says. Getting that a lot lately. Goodbye, it was nice talking.

Promita Roy in the bus today. Promita Roy, with the always upside down pout that was last spotted in Class 8. I keep seeing you around, she says. Why don't you say hello; Strange, I think. But she smiles, Goodbye.

That strange simultaneity of being, being bubbled and being part of the furniture. Inside and out, at once. Included yet ex-. When just waiting, undifferentiated from backdrop, stray people with stray things to say turn up and disappear: spectral, is that it? Like today's dude on crack, with red eyes peeling off, shivering a little, Harold Bloom, look up Harold Bloom's Invented Man, heard you mention Shakespeare, thought I'd - well (shiver) Goodbye. Disembodied, is that it?

Much like compulsory lists of relatives who must be met before moving - running into old faithfuls and young faithless, after years, months, weeks - with the voice-over saying, speak now or forever-

A litter of five, circular puppies with underbelly rash, quibble like bacteria in the sand before suddenly giving up, snoring, their paw suspended, mid-step. Almost, almost a wave goodbye. Heartbreak, is that it?

Sir's fingers move in impossibly precise jerks. Mind of their own, I think, staring, as he births sounds of a train, rain on a window pane with the same languid intensity. With the cat smug in his lap, purring, what - you think I can't get with it? It's raining outside when he has to leave, time to say-

Three heads in a row on the gleaming tiles, ex-goats, I think. It's a dirge - elegiac, is that it? It's a dirge, this urge to rise above, forgive, be the bigger- It's the knowing that it's time, it's time. Hurry up, please, it's time.

-he says, tchah, you don't say Jachhi, Leaving. You say, ashchi, I'll be coming now. Bad luck to say. Leaving.

No one believes it, but I know this is coming to a close. Only hope the move is not only metaphorical - god knows I'm enough metaphorical - It's the winter, D says. It's the winter, everything begins receding, life in backward, people going eeyaab doog in that death metal voice.

I'll be coming now. (Fullmoon, is that it?)

experiments with truth; or write as it comes.

Sarfaraz (SR) has on a solid pink shirt, of which the sleeves, elbow downwards, have each a purple stripe. Sarfaraz (SR) has orange, sometimes ochre, hair standing on end; brilliantine now slightly dulled with the day's grime. Sarfaraz (SR)'s white-framed sunglasses hang from the back of his collar while the pink teddy bear trinket dangles from the end of his cellphone, spilling over the right pocket of his ragged jeans. Sarfaraz (SR) has his name tattooed on his pink and grey bag and perhaps unknowingly, has embraced metro-sexuality with just the right balance of indifferent flair. Sarfaraz (SR) stops twitching his gleaming white shoes and jumps up for the Senior Cetizen, who has the greater claim to the seat. Sarfaraz (SR) scans the bus modestly. He knows his chivalry is likely to cull favour with the ladies.

The Marwari in the white Swift speaks into a white cellphone while his left hand dexterously, alone, veers left, right, left, reverse and out of its parked space, only to be halted by the unmoving traffic. Unable to lie inert, the left hand, as dexterously, begins to empty The Marwari's nostrils of redundant pith. A motorcyclist rolls in behind, and smiling through the reflective, rainbow helmet, asks for an inch forward. The Marwari, who is not done talking yet, scowls while the orange tika on his forehead peels off some more. The traffic stolid still, the nose adequately aired, the left hand steers the Swift back along the same and opposite trajectory into Square A. The Marwari gets off, apologising for the goddamn noise.

Mrs. is very flagrantly Bangali. In times of such dubious identities proliferating like blind mice, one must do one's best. Mrs. clutches her handbag to her chest as she rocks gently with the bus over potholes and around circles, sleeping. Mrs. will probably not alight before me, I think, as my heart continues to fall apart in slow, violet petals and Glabicki continues to croon, Won't Be Long, Won't Be Long. Won't Belong.

of sugar, spice and boiled gobindo-bhog rice.

What joy, I cried today, plumb centre of 8B crossing that is free-for-all. What joy, to have cramps strike right when every chemist and every druggist has overdosed on itself and gone, oil in nose and shutter down, post lunch. Stop wailing, A tugs, stop wailing and walk.

But it is too much. Too much to bear, it has been so long and yet. Ten years nearly, shudder to think, says A, assuming I meant that and not, this. Wow, really? Ten years into puberty, of glorious womanhood, of radiant matronly virtue. What delicious feminine thrills run up and about our collective spine to think. That glow on the cheek, of love, of babymaker in waiting, of the potential harvest waiting to be seeded. Must you be so gross, we're about to be run over. A is not quite as giddy.

Of course, must. Like being reminded every minute that you've given your love away on things that don't even comprehend - wasted weak months on memories that were not even - living and being what they must make of you who don't even see - but I agree. I'm anything you want, it's easiest that way, easier than having to explain, clarify, dissent.

You're reading too much Woolf. This is not good. Lol, I say, Lol. Yesterday, she asks me if I want a shrink - worried, they are. But nothing to worry - those who talk about it don't do it. And you can talk. True that, that too. True. Cross, now! What the - that truck - why don't you just plant yourself there? Outraged, I. Not A. A is giggling. A is not giddy but A is bad, bad at crossing - more likely to get into an - accident.

But this too, too solid - I begin again but she, Oh, groan, stop, I'm going home. I pout - usually works. There's a six inch counter open - I say, I say, I say I don't think they have anything but Cerelac. I ask, could you - But the woman with the fifty medicine list says, Make sure I get mine first. I cough and blink before repeating, uh, need painkill - Yes uncle, he says; customary this exchange of endearments, grandpa calls you grandpa and so on - and then proceeds to divide two cups of lemon tea into three equal parts. I stare fascinated, beyond groggy now to care. A quips, better equipped than I right now, couldn't you just hurry? Man clucks his tongue, no appreciation for art, the exact tip of the balance - girls these days. Cluck, cluck, cluck.

Gulp down the inch long sulphur, two to be sure. And wait, wait for a miracle.

Except it's not a miracle - it's inevitable. Like roses, like Giovanni Allevi, like the midday sun - it's inevitable. Once it subsides and you're at peace with gender and generation - asl, please? - you'll wonder aloud, who exactly are? - it's inevitable.

the commute

Fifteen minutes into a traffic snarl, with the two o' clock sun and no rain, not a bit of rain: impossible not to despair. This only time, this transit, when no one knows or cares in particular, about anything in particular you might have to say or withhold, this only safe pause - the time is ripe to cry. Weeksful of woe begin to shrink and condense on brain. Squeezing it into necessity - must let it out now, before home turf hits. Kátharsi̱, tó̱ra!

If it weren't for the female's pursestraps which must fall on you again and, no matter how many times you twitch and cluck, and again. And then a tap on the arm, you stiffen, of all the nerve- if that wasn't- who does she- But turn and she's not even fifteen, the girl, clearly new to the concept of makeup - one can tell from the immense zeal. And she's asking - are those phone or ipod headphones? - and for a second, the eagerness - you haven't seen anything quite like it in a long time; the eagerness of each hair in place, of the glitter on the nail - takes you quite aback. But, mp3 player, you mumble, you get them here. White lies are usually held in contempt but one look at the smile that greets this, and you think, hell, anything to keep that going. And there's no reason for you to grin like that. Especially since a minute ago Grief, with hands folded in quiet anticipation, waited to enter - was now, coughing a little but taking it more than sportingly, overall.

Like the time, two nights ago while walking the dog, this thing cried out, auntiee! The -ee rising into a supersonic wail. Two probably, at most three, that kid at the window above - belly and elbows poking out from between the rods, hanging there in her bloomers: cuter than a monkey but not the kind to make you reach immediately for the cheek. The kind that cracks your heart open just a little. Ki, I ask, ki?

And ensues a most informative little chat, her being instructed by shyer, older relatives on proper questions and I, bawling from below, with a restless dog pulling jeans apart. Was dinner done yet, was I going to study, what were the dogs called, did I listen to Dev? Had my hair been an inch shorter, I'd probably still have passed of as Dada, but Auntiee it was for now - and grateful, I, for the passport it gave me.

It's impossible to begin to list the injustices. Of the people you've loved (and for what?) and the beliefs you'll always hold (and why?), of how the world refuses to retain a jot of what you looked forward to (and so what?) - impossible for the old train to break down, even though wheezing to its death, when you're hardwired as a sensible little girl - no longer little, never little.

But sometimes - stepping off the bus, bye bye, she waved back frantically, while reassuring Abba on the phone that she had indeed made biryani for him and it was right there, bye bye - 

the damndest little things make your day.

fixing a hole

That my superpowers included healing, I always knew. Resurrection is where I must draw the line. No more kitty party necromancy.

Even so. First step to erasure down, three million to go.

Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still.

this afternoon

Often I worry;

a little; about me. What if

at fifty, I begin

to need people, love, babies. What

then, if I begin

to curse my Nazi exceptions? Why I didn't get me

a Facebook wife while there was time, why the hell

could I not just give up, fall in

- what if, what if I was (that fatal gong)

wrong?

Or worse yet (tritest of trite) - alone and right?

Then
 a movement, a dash, a breakneck swerve -

writing dizzy ellipses, cyan on blue

streaks of desperation; a touch of madness in their mating.

As kingfishers catch fire - I think

I think, I do not worry.

Rumi

because twenty must be rung out, wrung dry

A celebrate myself, and sing myself kind of day; as sincerely executed as conceived.

Whatever is out there loves me much. The ride-to had it drizzling right through the sun. While the return had heavier, real rain - but so calm you'd want to sing just to bestir.

Water over Coke, guava over Cheetos, yellow over pink rose.
And so armed, and so assured, a nap beside the pond on singular spikes of wet grass.

Where it needs eyeglass in addition to contacts to realise

that the kingfisher is of the white-throated sort;

who likes to dip into the same ripple and perch back on the same branch to rouse itself.

That the black blots on the lotus leaves are actually moving,

(I'm not insane) and are snails. Ranging from Excess to Excel.

That the sky is virulent but quiet and indigo run dry
that will pounce on you if you can squint out the trees.

That I have just found my new afternoon delight.

And plenty of walking fro and to and not entirely without company because I gave in, because that doesn't matter any more. Commerce too, a little, as new clothes had to be changed (for once for being) - too small. And who can resist chicken and capsicum?

Tried to crave a cigarette, but it's like I pronounced - a smoke can never replace a coke - and so it was settled. What resolutions, what? When?

Back home, all quiet on every front. Pasta and Coke and I settle down, with the sun, for what began as Dr. Strangelove but soon was Meet the Fockers - of which about 30 seconds was funny; exactly what I needed except there was just one thing missing which quietly crept up and made camp on heart.

Pasta, Coke, Movie, Pillow.

And, cat.

Webcam leftovers. Glasses, see.

And lest we forget: cameos by
Ben Harper, Cat Stevens and several versions of Across the Universe -
one of the few that has stayed the same since age six and
twenty certainly won't change my world. =)

There's lots and there's nothing left
but to curl up in the secret place on floor 6 + 1, tonight,

tonight that Cassiopeia, Orion have joined Sirius.

It's past midnight. Aranyer Din Rattir has finished playing. It reminds me again of that stifling beauty of a Ray film. But more importantly, there will be cake soon.

Rewind, oh delirious days, oh lonely years - and stay, stay with me.

Had planned on spending day under the bed but there's a Bharat Bandh so pretty close.
Unlikeliest of people remembered to wish. Fuzzy feeling that won't let me be misanthrope.

So. It's been an hour each of everything desired and I think I am finally ready.
Holyshit, holyshit I'm twenty. =D

when you're not feeling holy

A belief that we are collectively fed - as appetisers to the boiled apples and pulped spinach - is that love sent out is love received. Like the begat begat begat of the NT - except here the blanks are Love - and this principle did not hold true.

Perhaps it was the alternating between indulgence and passive aggression - Let's agree to disagree - whichever the final straw, the world and I have ceased to get along; except, at best, casually. I've tried pretending this away but it's still there, sure as a stump.

One could take this opportunity to burst into tears and curse all humanity and stamp on centipedes at bus-stands. 

Or.
One could take deep breaths out the window, take oneself out to lunch, ending it with a chocolate tart in slowest possible motion; and be grateful in general for the adequacy of being.

For although the heart has been very foolish in its choices, and much too proud to cry, and much too constant to forget, there are reasons to rejoice still. The mind is a more reliable friend, seeking only to absorb, dissect or revel in itself. Indulge this instead.

It's hard to keep clasped that atom of conviction against the world's body of dissent 

- you're not really all that special, just strange. And untimely - 

but it can be done.

If you would only let the lonely pass from being a punishment.

If you could stop to think, instead of squeezing head between indignant hands and running from one distraction to the other; if you can begin to forgive.

I love the world, and it's alright if it doesn't feel the same way. And no, I will no longer wait for it to change its mind.

You can't always git what you want - Thank god for that.

PS: This is not to suggest that status quo is above question and that sociopath is necessarily also genius - only that it's quite all right. =)

Say Aum.

Meditating always gives me a migraine. Heightened hearing and razor reflexes, but also migraine. Beautiful or not, Truth warrants migraines. As well it should.

How else is one to be pinched awake from time to time? How else do you send packing the last few years in a much-stamped suitcase to Abu Dhabi?

Pop an aspirin and keep your x-ray vision on, troopers. Illusions, though happy, are treacherous places to make camp.

Cruelty is often just restraint.

Choosing not to smile and say "It's quite alright", deliberately pocketing the hand that reaches out, stamping out the instinct to protect. So easy to maim their smiles by just holding back.

But this deflection of what the heart otherwise would: is that easy?

of familiarity that should not be

One must begin Mrs. Dalloway alone on the roof. Discovered this this afternoon in a Woolf class. This woman, this woman who wrote from age five, because she must. This woman who, preoccupied with The Mother tried, tried ever so often to end everything - or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely - overjoyed at getting the right to write anything at all, for it cohered her, healed her, made her one self. She who placed herself next to Mansfield and shrugged, meh; I ought to do better. She of the acid-tongue journalistic school; she who hated to love.

One must not proceed in this vein because of course, there will never be a Lenny, oh Lenny but also because there will never be death by water. For even though, when one first heard of how Woolf walked into Hades, at eight - when she knew all about wolves and beetles, but not in Uppercase - and one tried re-enacting it, it was all in queerious jest; it was after all, stones in fist because swimsuits don't come with pockets, because it was not a river but the ocean inlet at Corbyn's Cove. Analogies are dangerous.

One must beware of those who seem to get too much. Besides, one was born into sane family and cats and dogs, heralding the twenty-first century. It shall take forever for a room of one's own but still there's the water tank and a ladder leading up to it.
Alas, At last, At least a reason to thank one's anachronistic existence.

Wheels > Toes

Driving is an alienating experience. The car is not me, and yet I am it. Perhaps it slowly becomes us; like our heels or our lashes. Like every irrational foreign protuberance we learn to control, learn to accept gratefully as our indispensable, shiny, supple limbs.

We (in time) learn to part our hair, smile whenever the occasion needs us to. And although we still blink, sneeze, we no longer cry out in alarm. We accept our eructations and flatulence and usually let them pass without much comment.

Perhaps I too shall one day accept my swerves, near schoolgirl road kill, that one too-wide turn. Till then, let me draw the utmost satisfaction from the steady steer, gentle over-riding of speed breakers, umbrella insurance for dogs. It has only been four lessons, after all.

Evolution

Look at it this way, if a month later you're still alive, you can run - nay, skip - through the same gauntlet as many times as you like. I'm on this side, I'm on the other side; I'm on fist side, I'm on nother side. How's that for boss battle victory? And no one to divide spoils with. Torture ftw!

Silence/One Tight Slap?

It's not esprit d'escalier if one chooses to retain the observation slash retort. Not many see this, those who do will never tell. To prevent another (heaven forbid) amity grown habit grown cult.

As for the rest, one wonders. Would it have been worth it, after all, if on some ill-begot morning, one should decide to give up (for a day) the Omerta and  slash (with observation slash retort) offender and put the world in its rightful place, tucked in that exact bend of the right ear-canal where the wax begins to crumble?

What sort of triumph comes of giving up what sets you apart? (that's a single question)

Roots

The axioms of our universe of discourse.

The only things we can cling to.

Strange, that locating them should always be a retrospective exercise.

We cannot know who we are till we know who we are:

Does that qualify as a Paradox?

Double-Back

No matter how fervently you love him, and no matter how patiently you persevere; however divinely forgiving of errors and sweetly indulgent you may be of him - 

your dog will never learn Boolean Algebra.

Now that you have accepted this, perhaps it is time to reconsider love.

Is not his drool just a little bit annoying? Does not his stoic stupidity (sometimes) push you just a little closer to cracking your ribs?

Silence is only profound to those who choose to think.

sweet and heady

like my love

burying body; birthing brain

Embracing/Defacing Greatness:

Defined by those sudden, condensed, singularly disembowelling moments, where you must discern between - Friends and Equals.

Defined by the hitherto unknown, palpable absence of vagrancy, confusion, dithering of any kind - except that borne out of this very state of unusual resoluteness.

Defined - sadly - by the rising degrees of tedium that mark every passing act of Kindness. As opposed to acts allegiant to the Intellect. How will the yielding heart and the precision-drill mind reconcile?

Ach. Growing pains. I need Father Bhaer.

So perhaps 19 is a little too early to expect Nirvaana.

:)

excuse me, i'm in the wrong room.

I sprint through the world blindly with family-shaped stencil in hand.

Cutting out all excesses, misfits, everything. Of course, nothing except grotesque remains.

Can you imagine trying to grate slate?

Back home I squint through my worldly-wise eyeglass.

The kind that magnifies all exceptions, variations, gradients. Of course, I am never content.

Can you imagine what a rose looks like under a microscope?

symbols, numbers and other neuroses

When you turn brackets inside out they include the universe and exclude perhaps only, you. Throw in an equals sign and this is set right again. )=(

Wise, watery Neptune knows this, of course. That you are but everything you forbid yourself and even your walls (perhaps a little traitorous) are the same.

Just another white spark to justify the entire dreary afternoon on a seven-seven (allow yourself a giggle).

Today when you stammered and I asked sorry, what? and you flicked it with three fewer (and therefore less guilty) syllables it dawned.

You were trying to be more accessible. This perverse compulsion to arrest yourself without reason (when is there reason?) was not my albatross alone.


The things we do to make those we love feel safe. And adequate.

not exactly Jung

The Victim? Too haughty.
The Queen? Fell.
The Clown? Too dry.
The Satirist? Hope too desperately.
Blonde (but sweet)? Spell too well.
The lithe Fool? See through too much.
The Hermit? Love too hard.
Angel? Too much rage.
The concerned Representative? Deathly reticent.
The Wallflowers, then? Not enough.
Speak? Why?
Shut Up? Fume too much, still.
Fly? Fear of falling, remember?
Stay-at-home Mom? Too little content.
So you're Wilde? I'm Earnest.
Blyton? Too controversial.

What's left to be? Sensible.

The agonies of compulsive efficiency. 

The inevitable tragedy of being hardwired far too skilfully to concede time to rust over 

these matters that with ourselves we too much discuss, too much explain. 

The absolute fatality of being the Sensible one, 

of blowing one’s nose and distress into (nothing but) 

a clean handkerchief and 

walking on in sober black pumps: 

none but the brisk tight-lipped ones know.

So, here we are.