Flow my tears - by Dowland

Flow, my tears, fall from your springs!
Exiled for ever, let me mourn;
Where night's black bird her sad infamy sings,
There let me live forlorn.
Down vain lights, shine you no more!
No nights are dark enough for those
That in despair their lost fortunes deplore.
Light doth but shame disclose.
Never may my woes be relieved,
Since pity is fled;
And tears and sighs and groans my weary days
Of all joys have deprived.
From the highest spire of contentment
My fortune is thrown;
And fear and grief and pain for my deserts
Are my hopes, since hope is gone.
Hark! you shadows that in darkness dwell,
Learn to contemn light
Happy, happy they that in hell
Feel not the world's despite.

Wine does not have its own color
Wine checks and accounts herself
Those who are wise,
Wine increases their wisdom
Those who are dumb,
Wine fucks em up

The following post is part of the character development of the protagonist in the novel I am planning to write. I know it has runons, fragments, and typos but thats what the protagonist is supposed to be. He is the Harry Haller of this day.

Demons

aaaaaFUCKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK........

I am frustrated of my own existence. I am prone to errors that I have always agreed to but I had never thought that my capacity for self-destruction is swift and blind of my previous struggles. I stand here in the sand knees deep, and yet reluctant to move. I picked my own poison years ago as the prophecy goes. I am a victim of my own ambitions, and my doom is eminent. I am a failed experiment of the nature set somewhere in the chain of evolution; and not fit for survival. I console myself with white lies – no I its not the respect for humanity or atleast that is not what determines my actions – its my fears.
I realize my deprivations now. I remember innocent wishes of that child – never fulfilled. I do not remember my childhood. No major events happened. I just grew up; spun into motion one day and I promised myself that I will curtail my deficiencies and realize my unfulfilled wishes. I succumb to those desires today. Do not mistake me for a hero of the tragedy; Nobel stature is not my thing. I have set myself in motion for the tragic fall. So hollow are my foundations that knowing what lies ahead, I have chosen the forbidden path. I regret every moment that I am living. All my struggle, all my hard work will mean nothing.

Hassan the potter - by N.M rashid

Jahanzad, down in the street before your door
Here I am, burnt-out Hasan the Potter
This morning in the bazaar when I saw you
At old Yusuf the perfumer’s shop
In your glance was that brilliance
I’ve longed for, wandering nine years in madness
During that time
I never looked back
At my ailing pots -
Pots formed by my deft hands,
Lifeless creatures of clay, color, oilglaze
They whispered:
“Where is Hasan the Potter now?
He left us, his own creations
He created us, then turned away like the gods!”

Jahanzad, nine years passed for me
As time would pass in a buried city;
Clay in the clay-vats
With its fragrance that used to ravish me
Lay stone-hard
Flagon and flask, jug and cup, candlestick, vase
Props of my trivial life, of my art
Lay broken
I myself, Hasan the Potter, mud-mired, dusty-haired, naked
Besied my wheel, hair disheveled, head on knees
Like some grieving demigod, from fantasized
Clay-and-nothing I molded pliant pots out of dreams.

Jahanzad, nine years ago
You were a child, but you knew
That I, Hasan the Potter
Had seen in your talisman eyes, your sky-warming eyes
Brilliance
Which made my body and soul an open road
For cloud and moon

Janhanzad, the dream-colored Baghdad night
That bank of River Tigris
That boat, the boatman’s closed eyes
For a worn-out, grief-burdened potter
One night was the charged amber
His static being clings to, even now.
His soul, his shape
But that night’s flavor was a river-wave in which
Hasan the Potter sank and has not come up.

Jahanzad, in those days, day after day
That ill-starred woman came
When she saw me by the wheel, mud-mired, head on knees
She shook me by the shoulders -
(that wheel which had been, year after year, my life sole prop!)
she shook me by the shoulders:
“Hasan, look at your desolate house
how will the children’s hollow stomachs be filled?
Love-struck Hasan
Love is a rich man’s game
Hasan, look around at your house!”

In my ears this mournful voice was like
A call to a drowning man in whirlpool.
Those heaps of tears were flower-beds, no doubt
But I, Hasan the Potter, lived among ruins
In a fantasy-city where not
A voice, a movement
A flying bird’s shadow
Not a trace of my life existed.

Jahanzad, here now in you street
Her in the cold-colored darkness of night
I stand before your door
Head and hair disordered
From the window those spell-drowned talisman eyes
Flance at me once again
Time, Jahanzad, it the wheel on which like flagon and flask, cup,
candlestick, vase
Humans are made and unmade
I am a human but
Those nine years that passed in the mold of grief!
Hasan the Potter is now a dust-mound without
Even a hint of moisture.

Jahanzad, this morning in the bazaar
At Yusuf the Perfumer’s shop, your eyes
Spoke once again
Their brilliant mischief
Calls forth again in the dust-mound a quiver of wetness
Perhaps to turn the dust to clay
Who knows the scope of longing, Jahanzad, but
If you want, I go back to being
That potter whose pots
Were the pride of every house and street, city and town
Whose pots shone in the homes of rich and poor
Who knows the scope of longing, Jahanzad, but
If you want, I will go back to my forsaken pots
To the dried-out vats of clay-and-nothing
To the props of my life, my art
So from this clay-and-nothing, color and oil glaze, I
Can again strike sparks
That light up the ruins of hearts.

[A Translation from Urdu language]

Pink Floys'a Bike - from the album Piper at the Gates of Dawn

I've got a bike.
You can ride it if you like.
It's got a basket, a bell that rings,
and things to make it look good.
I'd give it to you if I could, but I borrowed it.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything, if you want things.
I've got a cloak, it's a bit of a joke.
There's a tear up the front,
it's red and black,
I've had it for months.
If you think it could look good then I guess it should.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world
I'll give you anything, everything, if you want things
I know a mouse and he hasn't got a house.
I don't know why I call him Gerald.
He's getting rather old but he's a good mouse.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything, if you want things.
I've got a clan of gingerbread men.
Here a man, there a man, lots of gingerbread men.
Take a couple if you wish, they're on the dish.
You're the kind of girl that fits in with my world.
I'll give you anything, everything, if you want things
I know a room of musical tunes.
Some rhyme, some ching, most of them are clockwork.
Let's go into the other room and make them work.

She smells like butterflies.

Earth and Water and fueling leaves

After a while I write on the stones left behind by the river that once flowed here. I gather my thoughts like leaves on a track in an autumn evening; trying not to step on the noisy notes and not distract the dead river which lays next to them.

The wind blows twirling and swirling the leaves in circles rotating around the axis of a void, and wind. It could have been a storm in a teacup, if Shakespeare was right, and this whole a one big play.

Enough said of creepy leaves; of winds that go round and round; and of the dead river. What concerns us is not the stones but the writings on them, rightly. Arcs of varied angles subtend from rock to rock. The hard earth is breached with lines parallel, which never meet, and intermingled circles which forms stars if looked upon with not much attention.

These stars shine and brighten up the night; not as a moon of joy, but as if one was to float on a piece of straw in a mighty river; hanging on to the last strings of hope.

But its all grey - the stones are grey. My autumn - the hallucination of my indulgence is of concrete. And why would it not be?

I fell in love with Medusa.
I turned back and saw behind the shadow;
towards the crisp whispers of stepped on leaves
howling in the winds of silent seas (of my dead river that is).

I gave her my leaves, my river; gave her an archaic smile, as the world turned to stone.
Now, I sit scratching my memories on these well rounded stones. My arcs are wide, and they reach from stone to stone like a bridge back to myself.

The Cat in the last post

Don't feel pity for a scary looking kity!
it may look clean but underneath its gritty.
Who conspired to kill me,
this kitty,
is chairperson of that committee.

Vini vidi vinci or I am not afraid of you Mr. Bigglesworth

I spotted a cat who was minding his own business; you know being arrogant and stuff.

I was able to convince him for an interview, but he wouldn't answer any questions.


Started making faces at me.

A second before he attacked me.

San Diego Dec 06 - Jan 07 Bay Area

San Diego Dec 06 - Jan 07

blank

"I have said everything and I have nothing more to say." This is the first thought that surfaced in my head when I opened the blogger today. I have been trying to write something for a few days now, but invain are my tries. As always the reason are the scattered thoughts. I have not been able to pin point an idea to write about.
Altough I am not interested in outlining the underlaying psychological foundations of scattered thoughts, but I will say that there has been a lot going on. My blog is two years old now. So there are two years of transition of my thoughts in bits. May be I will delete them one day.

Mistress Platitude

After starring at the screen for 35 minutes, i have decided not to write about her. Its not because of some moral dilemma, but for a simple reason, that I have not been able to focus on any particular point; something that explains and builds a complete theory.
I wanted to write about her; something that would sum up her personality in a few lines. But, I guess I am not sure myself and she is still shrouded in some mystery. Mystery, not as in some mythological beauty, but more of a boring platitude. I'll see if I can find out what she wants the next time we meet.

A dog named Fire

If I ever pet a dog
Ill name him fire
after his personality
and not as a
satire.

He'll go out to hunt
do various stunts
and even jump
through a ring of fire.

He will bark
at the shadows
in the dark
and will rescue your ass
in case of a fire.

When you will go blind
and will need a K9
and wonder if he is for hire?
I will be happy
(it is my desire)
to tell you to go
and set yourself on fire.