Tuesday, July 29, 2008

One evening

The sun had just set and I was walking back home from the khokha. I was thinking about how my clothes would one day be recognized as "symbolic" of this particular era. I was looking at my scorched hands and sun burnt skin. My shoes and my clothes were almost equally unclean. I chirped three times, good naturedly, at the cat sitting on the wall. It nodded its head, three times, back at me in a meaningful way. That was when I realized I was the maker of the meaning in my life and that my handwriting was filthy. The cat was quite fat.
“How much do you eat?” I asked but was not able to hide successfully the insult suggestive in my tone. The cat got offended and said: “Does your father pay my bill?”

I know when I am beaten and that too by a cat. The fault, however, was entirely mine. I should’ve used a more cunning approach, a bit more diplomacy perhaps. But I had never realized that one was expected to go fully armed against cats! I had only been awaiting a well deserved look of loathing from the animal but an actual witticism? From a cat?! I thought it was a bit extreme and I had been caught unaware. My balls froze as if they had been dipped in liquid ice. The colour blue flashed before my eyes and my vision blurred. My handwriting had suddenly improved.

I was almost halfway home by the time I realized I was a genius, full of symbolic manipulation and vast metaphors. But if I were to take an objective standpoint, I would have to admit that I was a complete idiot. Though my handwriting was improving and I was soaking information in like a sponge.

This is when I reached the black door that leads through the wall on to the back or maybe even the left side of my house’s backside, which was perpendicular to the left side of my house. There was a corridor and a garden filled with confusion, doubt and utter chaos, where squirrels searched for spare change to buy cigarettes.
But that’s a different story because I was stuck on the other side; behind the door, which was sure to be locked. It was almost always locked. This meant that I would have to haul myself over the wall and balance my weight against the, ugly but youthful, guava tree. The guavas were a most unripe shade of green and the place in general was a quicksand of insect debauchery; once the tube light was turned on. They were everywhere and of every sort. I especially hated those white ones that oozed yellow blood when they got squished beneath the hand of a “brownie”, a mere slave like me. White man’s burden offered a much more accurate picture in this setting, except for the insect. I hated those insects and was sure to come across it if I were to put my hands on the top of the wall and pull myself up. But the wall wasn’t all that tall anyway and I could see perfectly what was on the surface. It was just a matter of choice after all. Shall I try to blow away all these remnants and bits and pieces or just not bother and try to rely on careful hand placement and dynamic weight shifting?
Fortunately the door was open so I simply walked on in.
By now I could not recognize my own handwriting. In all honesty I could barely draw letters. Half the alphabet was alien to me.
In the middle of all this confusion, somehow, an element of morality reared its ugly head and things became even more convoluted. Forget Freud or the squirrels; no nicotine junkie mammal could ever help me solve this riddle: my conscience told me that I shouldn’t have bought cigarettes at the khokha. Not that I had anything against the khokha, except perhaps that it was too far from my room; its just that smoking made me feel guilty. My mother had told me, far too soon, that it was a dirty habit.

An old man appeared, dressed in green, but wearing his shoes on backwards.
“Why do your feet point backwards when your visage points elsewhere, O’ sage and most wise of mortal guides?” I asked the old man, trying to make up for the cat incident by being more courteous, just in case.
A sort of classy but somewhat feminine touch had invaded my handwriting.
The old man replied: "I am no sage; I’m a fraud. I point in one direction but take the other. Go look for Khizr in your own heart for my heart is a concoction of bitterness that will never be resolved!”

I instantly realized that the old man was mad and also that I was not having a good ‘social’ day. All interactions so far had ended in disaster. I turned away, lowered my head and avoided his gaze but even as I walked away, he shouted: “Don’t be so quick to shy away from your own image. Your contempt for me is for yourself!”

I could now see strange symbols in my handwriting: fish swimming or a collection of unblinking eyes. Some of the loops in it were almost comical and yet impressive in their genius at deception. My writing resembled, in its simplicity, the confession of a tarnished soul, a restless spirit and a fading conscience. This was the scariest part of my journey.

The garden of squirrels, squirrels that smoke, and talk like women, was always to my left. The corners of my vision betrayed an image of angular desires and nonsensical lies. Absurd predicaments were being chased by moments of personal embarrassment in an environment of ever possible public humiliation. I kept chanting a mantra over and over again to keep myself from repeating old mistakes. My heart gulped in terror and I shuddered as I muttered, “One plus one does not make one…it makes two!”

I was thinking about a cat. That often happens when you chant. If you’re a frequent chanter then you would know that an accomplished chanter always snaps out of a reverie, quite suddenly, to find himself thinking about something completely unrelated. There was a sense of peace in knowing how well my defenses worked. So now I was thinking about a cat. Not the cat, but a cat. The difference is significant.

My handwriting most resembled a seasoned philosopher or a practical joker who did not care about his handwriting openly but suffered ulcers on the sly. I wanted to move underground.

I turned the door handle and entered my house. I ate some food then went upstairs and sat alone. I counted my nails and my teeth...twice, just to be sure. I looked at shapes in the marble floor. I hid the floor beneath the mattress and tried to quit this habit. There was a wad of chewing gum on the chair’s leg. Wanton acts of rebellion surrounded me and suffocated me.
The time was right but the place was wrong.
The time was perfect…spot on…it’s just that the place was entirely wrong.
The wall beneath the cat had been a wonderful experience. I had enjoyed it. In retrospect, I must say that the wall had been covered in beautiful flowers and the cat, the most ideal ornament; how cleverly it had nodded! Clever cat, I thought.
By now I couldn’t tell if the ink in my pen was black or blue or red.

Monday, July 7, 2008

Emails and how to reply...

nah it was just a nice trick to see if you'd ever called me a cunt or not.
i guess i was insecure and wanted to know...even though i don't really leave my house so it doesn't effect me even remotely.

"just because i'm wet enough to tell you that i miss you..."

that was gross.

actually i don't really care what you do. you can send emails, you can fart a rocket out of your ass. not that i'm indifferent. i just...well it's been too long and i don't care. so i guess i AM indifferent.

i have this bi-polar disorder. which means that i alternate between happy and sad. at the moment i'm happy so i become confident and generally indifferent. when i get sad again, i'll curse you and ask you to piss off. because of this reason i don't meet or talk to people. it's not like i'm sad that i don't have friends. i just relive good memories in my head. which may sound pathetic but it's a lifestyle when you're paranoid about people and their peopley ways. i honestly don't care about you right now. don't be cross because i said so. it's just true. people like me can't even care for their ailing parents. we have our own interests at heart. which is why we distrust everyone else...because we fear facing qualities which we ourselves personify. like greed. hypocrisy. lust. itchy gums. i actually had to go to dictionary.com to see how to spell hypocrisy. that's how big a poser i am.

so. in conclusion. fascinating as it is that you miss me. why can't i be left alone? i don't like people...i am afraid of them. they bring out the worst in me. i would love to be a good person. i only go to school and then come back home. and then go to school tomorrow. sometimes i watch porn. that is my social life. i am not someone you would find interesting in the least. i was looking at myself just now and i noticed how sickly yellow looking i have become. so...in this nice manner...i have explained to you why you shouldn't miss me. i could call you names to get you to leave me alone too. i don't miss anybody. i don't want to miss anybody. i don't like to miss anybody. and when i do...i watch porn. no that may be untrue. however...so...i hope you will leave me alone. yes you have done very well these three years or so. i don't hate you. i hardly remember anything because i was drugged at the time. i wish you well. i really do...because the money you make, the children you mess up, the suicide you commit, i will never get to know of it...because i live so far away...so far away...so far away...(zeppelin_ocean?)

leave me alone. it is not my job to entertain you when you're bored of your regular friends. ok? do be good. do.

yours not all-ely,
muk

p.s. see how cruel and insensitive i am? i also have a virulent rectum and an extremely tiny penis that resembles a pimple. i like to believe that no other boy would go to the extent of belittling his own penis for the sake of seclusion and peace...this is how sincere i am to the cause of isolation. people are horrible cunts. i hate people. or perhaps i love them and so for their own betterment...nay...for the greater good...i must avoid them. i wish you could understand what it's like to be manic. you can't stop talking, telling lies, making stuff up, just because you can't stop. but there's no point. i've tried. people think it's a joke. i like to be alone. alone is good. ok? do you understand? you should be talking to artsy people who draw and paint and f*ck all the time and then smoke and talk about various unimportant things...like paintings and drawings and art and f*cking all the time and smoking and then dream about that stuff too. or death...isn't that a popular topic among your people? death. death and its mysterious nature. and dressing up in hoods, looking like black condoms...isn't that what you do? it's a rhetorical question...i don't really want to know. i decided somewhere along the line that i don't want to know a lot of things. i'm quite satified if i pass every year and go on to the next one...academically speaking. life is too personal a matter to be shared with strangers who assume so much about you. i hope your friends will make it so that you don't miss me...or at least, once they read this, they'll inform you that i'm ignorant and obviously a masogynist and probably impotent. maybe they"re right...maybe too much drug use has made my willy wilt. winkie.

ok then enough said.
hope i satisfied your curiosity. you may write once every year if you're still curious and i'll just give you a brief overview of how my life is progressing so that you can be secure in the dellusion that your life is better than mine. ok? ok? i don't hate you per say...however, knowing you was costly. and i guess i'm cheap when it comes to the humans i collect.

noighty naughty night.
perplexatron: adult.

if you want music or something...if that's what you want...
listen to roundabout by yes!
black swan by thom yorke
i talk to the wind by king crimson (or the entire first album)
the mind that knows itself by sufjan stevens (if that's the name of the song)
and just for the heck of it..."can't keep" by pearl jam.

see...i have given you music...i can't really hate you...i just just just wish to be left alone...ok? read wuthering heights or something...it'll depress you enough to kill yourself...or something...

well...i GAS tha's bout tit? no?
ok

read the great gatsby by fitzgerald.
don't read gabriel garcia, he's a whore bastard.
read shakespeare.
eat nuts.
watch jungle porn
eat corpses.
drink blood.
sit on nails
crap
crap
crap
crockacola
don't buy stuff from denmark.
change your number
search for God.
marry someone...God knows you're old enough...just marry someone...everyone's getting married...go marry and be merry...MARRY SOMEONE...doesn't your mother tell you to marry someone????
go find yourself a drunkard. fix him up. marry him. have his babies. eat them. sell them on ebay. have a happy new year. read fast. die young.
delete everything i ever sent you.
EVERYTHING.
delete it all...i mean if you haven't.

delete it.
delete it all.
delete this too.
i don't like to think that people have my words in their posession. it's dis...comforting...or whatsit.

JUST DELETE EVERYTHING.

\m/ u k