The Reconnaissance of a not so Inert body.

I am a plagiarist by nature
Steal your soul, I will
Negotiate some magic in your life
Before I go for my final kill

I had issues. I wrote because You asked me to. A risqué flirtation, staring at a blank document that holds an unambiguous and abiding promise of words that might change lives. The author must learn to love vacuity because in nothingness, everything becomes excruciatingly clear. After well studied departures to and from New York City,to and away from Los Angeles, to and from Mumbai. After incessant searching of spaces for families and mixing bloodlines the concept of Home becomes an obscure mirage.
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 cleared. 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 between concepts and creations and demarcations, I find a certain affinity for 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 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 so ingeniously and meticulously created.That’s the truth. So, now, when you sit in your beige and bland chapels seeking the Higher Power, bells aka knells start telling 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.

What else is the truth?

The air tightened its grip
On an ennui inducing wintry snowboat
At a place I knew
About a story I wrote
On the skin shedding wall of my now gone Home..

That Home is no more. That I feel as nomadic as I ever could have. That I feel a pungent mixture of cheap soy sauce, rebellion and guilt making its way down my throat everytime I eat at a dilapidated joint. I will make unapologetic attempts though. To let my soul unsown of this cloaked contentment. To deconstruct Derrida and reweave Rene into my soulful caprice. Except this quirk is the idealism of desertion. A ragged afternoon breaks the day into two whole pieces. The Home you know, the Life you love, sit on one side and an airplane ride to a hemorrhaging terrain on the other. Pick, choose, decide. The Latter wins. I Leave.

Anymore of that much needed Truth.

Its not until you’ve tasted your own blood
resignation from Life becomes a non-choice…

That I will love You and want You safe wherever I might drag myself to be. That I will disappear from life, a Perfect Stranger. I like that we don’t embower bitterness of vengeance or vendetta of yesterdays. That we are not futilists as great as we might have liked to arbitrate; instead we have learnt to acknowledge our suction into self created passionate voids with a little bit of charm and a little care. And an infinity or none, you are my companion for life and one beyond it. I might be a perennially drunk, bird watching, camera clutching hardboiled fucking idiot for the rest of my life. But, in this instance of tranquility, I feel Right – for my History,for my unborn childhood and my galloping youth. And for all the Unborn Time.


~ by iconoplastic on April 17, 2008.

One Response to “Revoked”

  1. I say it again.

    “That I will love YOU. From the very core of my being and without wanting you to belong to me.”

    I miss the aimlessness of our strolls.

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