If not the ultimate demise..

Every blank page heralds truth about the inexorable life , the truth about love and laughter, the truth about death and disaster, the truth about hoping and wanting, the truth about living and waiting to live. Truth that may never find the accurate expression in uppity annoyingness of words. Words that are, perhaps, much like the expensive accessories to this white bland House. Words spurning from Thoughts. Thoughts –the animated expression of life, Words-the inanimate objects of my House. Insufferable implosion of words. Words need to be clear. My search for perfect prose is my search for a perfect Home. I have a studied apartment, a sparse and barren one. Sub consciously I seek transparency and experiments with B&W haziness have only strengthened my resolve to find absolute lucidity for images and people and places. Even as I juggle concepts and creations and demarcations, I find a certain affinity to simplicity of kind and structure. I want the uncharted truth about You and I and all of Us. So you start a pragmatic journey from superficial planes to a deeper internal environment and You want to conceptualize the truth about Us, the people, the human race. I can write about genocide and ethnic cleansing, of miscegenation and racial purification, of warlords and war games, of amputated arms clasping fired shells, small naked children reduced to that blurring line which separates life from death. Every landmine that blows up is God fragmented to a million pieces. In this moment of non-attention, you have killed God. The vedic logic says we created God in a span of 5000 years and now we are razing down that,what we created so ingeniously and meticulously.That’s the truth. So ,now when you sit in your beige and bland chapel seeking the Higher Power, bells aka knells screechingly tell you how the trinity bled to oblivion in the dusty Nigeria Lane. The issue is not as labyrinthine as I ‘d like for it to be, its as unforced as the precision that separates living from existing or light from dark.

(Un)related Agenda.

Margo Hammond is trying to defend fiction despite the opposing clime and amidst literary proclamations that the novel is dead, riling average book-lovers like us. Her motive, though commendable, is still ill at ease with its own dilemmas of what an artist(do want to not debate bout writer v/s artist platitude)creates, the distances between the imagined and the everyday existence. Such is the paradox but I will leave you to fathom that on your own, even as I grab a copy of “Their eyes were watching God” and marvel at the seemingly callous abandoning of Zora Neale Hurston by her peers.

p.s. : The  Inner Voyeur will relish Which Brings Me to You: A Novel in Confessions by Steve Almond and Julianna Baggott amidst ample warbling of the Aztec Camera.

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~ by iconoplastic on March 23, 2006.

3 Responses to “If not the ultimate demise..”

  1. Living in Reuter’s lane…
    *V for Vicarious  Vanguards*

  2. ..so should we choose despair or despise, equally powerful them things!!..certain people have all the luck..the straddling along the edges has never been more romantic…touche!
    hv fun taking pictures…and we shall join you soon.

  3. remarkable!!! coats.anorthcarolina.com

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