theme

No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell—what we take to be the song of angels is their song. - Franz Kafka
3"

That we are scarecrows presiding over tracts
Does not stop crows from placing feathers in our caps
And cracking up

Or stop termites pinching our feet
The powdery husk of their voices carries in the wind
Sawdust

Look there poor dog pissing in the breeze again
Chasing she who does not know fidelity

Last year’s clothes are deluged by sand
In the hourglass of my body is there time
Before upside down

I’ve lined my pockets with the fat satin of gluttony
I’ve toned my thighs on charity walks
Maybe the highway robbers will have a special smile for me

Our greedy pens gorge on trees
What when we cover all the trees and nothing
Stirs the chrysalis

" - Mani Rao, from Grand Finale
5"He who does not answer the questions has passed the test." - Franz Kafka, from The Test

My Philosophy of Life: a poem by the precocious Agha Shahid Ali at the tender age of 16.  [from the stunning Agha Shahid Archives at Hamilton College, NY]
26

heteroglossia:

"I used to write messages on the undersides of shelf fungi I found growing on trees in the woods — in Norfolk, at Saratoga, in Vermont — messages that no one could ever see."

— Hayden Carruth, Besides the Shadblow Tree

"Much of the exposure and confession we have grown used to in recent years ends in dullness. Instead of mystery we have information; nothing, or almost nothing, is withheld. Yet poetry lies as much in concealment as in revelation, more often in what is not said or shown. We should remember the hiddenness of so much early art, in caves, places where it would not be seen easily and stripped of its meaning. There were places once that one did not go, mountains no one thought to walk on, for the sake of the spirit living there. Our compulsion now is to climb every peak, to pry into every corner of life, to expose every secret. In the end we find the world empty, the mystery vanished, retreated stubbornly to a place we will never find by looking for it."

— John Haines, “On Our Way to the Address,” Transtromer: A Special Issue, IRONWOOD, NO. 13
51

onnua:

Wherever it reaches out toward the limits of expressive form, literature comes to the shores of silence. There is nothing mystical in this, Only the realization that the poet and philosopher, by investing language with the utmost precision and illumination, are made aware, and make the reader aware, of other dimensions which cannot be circumscribed in words… this borderline is Wittgenstein’s: what we cannot speak about we must consign to silence

13"

The port
was longing

the port
was longing

not for
this ship

not for
that ship

not for
this ship

not for
that ship

the port
was longing

the port
was longing

not for
this sea

not for
that sea

not for
this sea

not for
that sea

the port
was longing

the port
was longing

not for
this &

not for
that

not for
this &

not for
that

the port
was longing

the port
was longing

not for
this &

not for
that

" - Robert Lax
7

-hey, do you write much? as in creative writing? would love to devour.
-
I write a bit. But it’s dark stuff. And typically sporadic. I’ll share stuff if you like. And I think I have posted several notes on my wall. You can see them if you like!
-I’ll have a look. I love the darkness, isn’t darkness so inextricably linked to our very souls?
-I agree. You know how people have issues with God? Like you either believe or you don’t? It is kind of similar in the case of darkness in our souls. Darkness, mind you, can be highly creative. Out of its atavistic wellspring emerges the most celebrated works of brilliance. But sadly, it just gets reduced to an elephant in the room. People see it, but they don’t react or respond to it.
-Uhm, I think I nearly get all of what you’re trying to convey. Very subject to ourselves, but then what’s absolute? Moulding is perhaps the key everywhere.
-Of course, my statement has its exceptions. There is no absolute. Even the idea of subjectivity is subjective in itself. Presentation, or as you succinctly termed it as moulding, is the key to the acceptance of subjective versions. Moulding ensures whether something becomes acute or obtuse.
[treads at this juncture, a black dot.]
-That sounds like me every morning. Hiding behind layers of falsification and make-up. Every day, pulling a mask on and facing the world. Covering chinks in your armour with the glue of determined grit.
-Uhh..Just that it gets too worse at times. And you’re too tired of being brave? All you do is implode slowly, cocooned inside your visions of imaginary—yet never-realizable, vain—bliss.
-Imploding happens into pillows. Muffled. Or in a running shower. But it happens. With scary regularity.
-
It rings so true. At times, you feel it’s just you. The sort of impostor, always at odds with the world, never getting to adjust properly to its climes. But then, you witness people akin to you and the realization dawns in that you’re not alone. Perhaps that sole thing offers some solace.
-It does. And then we become shoulders for these souls. Giving and partaking in solace. Offering advice we would never follow. Offering nonetheless.
-Ha. Done that a vainly inordinate number of times.
-Just last night and this morning. The ditched girl advises the other about not taking ditching seriously.
-Uhm. Every single moment is a paradox, a revelation.
-True. Schrödinger never made better sense. What’s happening and also what’s not happening. Along with how we wish it’d happen. All at the same time.
-Yup. We always discover ourselves at the intersections, the crossroads, the fringes and at times to our own disgust and dismay, even hopelessness.
-And sometimes, despite these discoveries, we continue to act in the same way. Like a lesson we failed to learn. Except we did learn. But were we ready? Are we ever?
-
Can I even…All of this rings so true..I’m choked for words.
Always at the same spot.
-
Don’t speak. Meditate on the silence.
-
Thank you for opening up. I loved sharing sentiments with you.
-
Not an issue. I seek kindred spirits. And I mostly turn up empty-handed. I am glad we could have this conversation.
-
I don’t want you to go back empty-handed. Feel free to pour up yourself whenever you feel like.
-
This déjà vu is so strong in my case.
Being disappointed, returning “empty-handed”.
So, I understand.
-
I’ll take you up on your offer. I am acting in a play right now. It answers why Godot never came. My character is frustrated. And my director is happy with my juxtaposition of listlessness and anger. So I’ll let it out after Monday. Till then I have to tenaciously cling onto it.
-
would be Waiting for You..


Zazie dans le Métro,1960 | dir. Louis Malle
9

"not to become a writer—but to observe the world."


Jean Genet, quoted in Edmund White’s Genet: A Biography 
16"In these dark rooms where I live out
empty days, I circle back and forth
trying to find the windows.
It will be a great relief when a window opens.
But the windows are not there to be found—
or at least I cannot find them. And perhaps
it is better that I don’t find them.
Perhaps the light will prove another tyranny.
Who knows what new things it will expose?" - C.P. Cavafy, from The Windows[tr. Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard]

freegucci:

David Foster Wallace on German Television, 2003.

/ past