My sewage space

To be vulnerable is also to be open to learning. But how much of this learning do I need? How much of it is going to come in handy when my last breaths are fighting my body for freedom? Where is the balance? Do I absorb this information merely for the sake of earning a living? Where’s the depth? Isn’t it what I always swore against?

Too many questions…you think? Welcome to my head. Self-judging, cynical, critical, negative, optimistic, pompous, narcissistic, deep, shallow and so much more. There’s new information whizzing past me by the second. People know stuff. I don’t. The need to catch up is killing a lot of what I thought would never leave me. And still I stand with a net trying to catch whatever sticks. There’s no end to information and knowledge; college is playing its part in making me realize this. But how much of it do I really need?

This is where you end a paragraph. These are the two words that stick together the best. This booger-picking abomination is the agricultural minister. This one’s not. There so much to know and no time to figure out what’s unnecessary. So much for self-actualization. Here I am, a stereotypical young man looking to find the meaning of a lot of things. The phosphorescent glow in the sky assures me that my heart is in the right place. The animated professor lets me know that my head is not. But my head is in my heart. And I don’t give a shit about the shapeshifting list of union ministers.

I thought I had my centre in music. I thought my roots lay buried in poetry. I even assumed that I would be a world-changing naturalist someday. I pick up my guitar and I’m twenty years older than the kid on You Tube who plays the same song. I write and I sound like donkey crap. I try to meditate and I land up wondering when is the best time to light up the next smoke.

I’m drunk alright. But at least I’m thinking straight. I understand the miniscule significance I owe to mankind and I’m fulfilling it with gusto. “Accepting defeat” some would say. And they wouldn’t be wrong. There are the high ups and the low downs. Welcome to the world of the no ones in the nowhere. Welcome to someone who struggles to drop the cliché. It makes him money doesn’t it?

So I feed the monster. I allow my deceptive conformism to ramble on.

I ramble on asking if I’m way too vulnerable. Too open to learning perhaps. Where is the balance? Where is the definition? Where’s the frickin individuality? And I call myself a writer. Someone who is supposed to be intellectually superior. The objective spectator. Sadly, I suffer from a nervous neuroticism that can only be equated to an acid junkie. So I would like to quote one James Maynard Keenan and his story of an acid junkie with similar tribulations

Strapped down my bed. Feet cold and eyes red.

I’m out my head. Am I alive, am I dead

Can’t remember what they said

God Damn shit the bed.

I went to the shores the other day. Picked up a stray pebble noticing the moss it had gathered. How long had it been here? I wound myself like reaching for the stars. Spirit outweighed power. Power outweighed strength. I launched it and held position; arms empty; mouth open. I asked the pebble how far the shore looked from there. It sunk. So much for my answers.
 
They had all set out to sea. Big ships, cozy ships, comforting ships, strong ships, ships that would make it past the first night, those that wouldn’t and what not. Their ships and mighty sails scooped out large chunks of the wind. I looked up and saw nothing different.

I also picked up a few shells to check for a few stray currents of laughter or words. Even the breeze that had touched those sails would have done just fine. But instead, I heard a lot of stillness and a lot of turbulence. The hushed sounds were sharp, they pierced my ears and I was still trying hard to listen.

I urged my reluctant legs into the sea but the strings attached to my head seemed to be stronger that the ones attached to my chest. Or was it the other way round? I scratched the seaweed of my scalp trying to find out. The current pushed me out as the undertow pulled me in. I’m only one body, so what if the rest of me is pulling me apart. I succumbed. I stayed.

My face is pinned to this wall. It has soothing thorns and tormenting roses growing all over. If this is the prison wall, I better find out pretty quick which way is in and which ones out. They all look the same. Inviting, reproachful.

The waves don’t help either. The saline cold pushes me back. Standing on the shores and staring at them is no good. I brave my cowardly attempts and fill half my glass with rough adventures and thrills. I walk back and fill the other half with a neutralizing sense of security. I empty my glass and go looking again.

On my customary evening drive, I had two thoughts that passed my mind; almost simultaneously. The first one being something about what the music I love does to me. The second thought, predictably, was how I haven’t blogged for this long. I don’t think I’ll be getting into the second thought. Doing that will force me into justifying my indolence and you know what that may mean.

A good song ceases to be a cluster of sounds. Probably a wave or a flame or a pleasant gush of wind or a surreal landscape would be a better way to explain it. A gush of rain or bolt of anger. Calling it a sound would be toning it down a bit too much. Places I’ll never be able to visit, too far in distance or time, are as tangible as they can get. Emotions too dramatic and sensations too blissful are as close as lighting the next cigarette. Some of these songs find me tackling and tangling them on my guitar while the others just know they won’t be touched.

Either ways, there’s a part of me that always craves to dispose everyone around me and slip into a completely self sustained state. To numb and dead to be receptive at any level. That’s another place, much strived for, that looks to distant to be real as of now. At least I know how to sharpen my mirages.

A rusting rod and rotten wood
His weight a slave to gravity
Every swing so strong, every swing so willed
Every swing inching towards the free.

Approaching the crest he stops to think
A pause that seems to never end
He rocks right back to where he began
Like rules were made to never bend.

Ambitious to begin, a drudge at the crest
The fulcrum still holds ever so tight
From left to right and back to left
He affirms, soon, he’ll  have his flight.

He defies and ignores the eternal wheel
Dreams his dreams swinging on and on
“Inevitable” a word for the weak
It’s him who tells the dusk from dawn.

Evenly paced, calm and composed
Who’s to see the tempest inside
Like breaths that never seem to end
And seas with never-ending tides.

Black and white, he’s done it all
It’s all in him and his two way trip
It can sink or swim for all he cares
No one’s leaving this rocky ship.

Eyes shut and blinds drawn
A 1000 abettors of the moon are here
Wishing away every piece of dawn
Bisecting the night with every leer.

The abettors shimmy on your silver skin
So deep in sleep, the night forced to halt
I feel my glass from bottom to brim
The stars soar higher as they exalt.

You hug the breeze as it fills you heart
You twist and turn, jumping from dream to dream
You stitch the worlds so far apart
So full with all that heavenly sheen.

Two moons now, they shine down on me
You seem more real, one with the night
As I reach out, inching towards my reverie
You’re gone again, another dawn to fight.

On a holiday morning, it’s something else to drift with time and not actually regain consciousness. There’s an overtly energetic dog waiting for you who thinks otherwise. You try to splash the sleep away by a few frantic attempts at the wash basin and give up. You try to get in the active mood you’re going to find the dog in, but these are the small bubbles we see bursting everyday. You can’t match up to the dog.

So as you drive down to the dog’s crib, you can’t care less about the fiery liquid in your eyes suggesting lack of sleep. All you can think of is the unthinkable ways the dog must have dirtied the place. Irony of living with the dog, you know his method of causing trouble is going to be different and unexpected every time he gets down to it, but cocky as we are, you still try to predict.

It’s rarely that bad though and as you open to door, you see a clean house and a doe-eyed dog caught in two seconds of motionless comprehension almost as if saying “It’s him, It’s really him…”. All that early morning grumpiness takes a backseat as you see the dog doing his version of an adrenalin shot. Almost like a yo-yo cut lose, it’s tough to site him during these initial moments of jubilation. You’re just incapable. The faster you accept it, the better it is. You’re incapable of feeling or expressing love the way this 2.something feet torpedo does.

You trod along for his scheduled excretion expedition as he showers vegetation that seems worthy of his attention. The sun reflects ever so softly over his fur almost making him look like an angelic creature. Almost. Like a ball of wool from heaven, Sparkling caramel for eyes and elf-like ears; is this a dog? You wonder if you’ll ever see a dog like this one. Sure every dog owner feels the same but somewhere, deep within, you know this generalisation is the very reason why people might not be lucky enough to experience the wonder-dog.

Fake tattoos and broken smiles
A scattered cloud for thoughts
And you’ve still come miles.

Strained emotions, a thousand lies
Love in your cold heart
Can’t help but despise.

A mess for dreams, a few broken lines
You’ll still be right here
Re-living blissful times.

A big fat purse, spanking new shoes
A quick shot of coke
Chasing away your woes.

A lusting heart and a tattered soul
Waging wars within
You’re out to conquer the world.

Chained arms and tired feet
Neck deep in agony
It’s too late to retreat.

Obvious as it seems, troubles and problems rarely come independently. I’ve observed the trend with myself as well as a few of my friends. Its always a “buy-1-get-a lot-free, end-of-season-sale, just for you” kind of a thing where you feel you’ve been caught on the wrong side of an enthusiastic salesman. Its like buying a huge swanky TV and getting 25 CDs, speakers, batteries, some jewellery, a few sweets and a smiling delivery boy free or something in the lines of buying a car and getting the other one free. Again there are days when you just buy the car and you get the other car, the TV and all the other add ons along with it. For the sake of brevity, you’ll usually find more blows coming your way when you’re already down.

Instance 1: The most recent of these god forsaken moments occurred this Sunday and believe me, it lasted for more than a moment. A normal murky day with loads of regret over a wasted weekend is my idea of normalcy. But excitement found a way to grab me by the throat (Tweaked for editorial reasons). I soaked my clothes and headed to my friends house who was shifting. (3 minutes post disaster) I finished helping the bugger shift mammoth amounts of stuff before I headed home (1 ½ hours post disaster). The smell of soaked clothes hovering over my head was a constant reminder of my Sunday nightmare, laundry (1 hour 37 minutes post disaster). So after some hardcore self-coaxing I enter the bathroom and surrender (1 hour 50 minutes post disaster). As I was washing away, I felt an aberration in my jeans pocket. From years of laundry, I was cock-sure I had come across a handkerchief. I was right, so…I scrubbed on. (2 hours past disaster). Second aberration, a handkerchief again. Assumptions fail (Moment of realisation). With the arrogance of a man whose seen the worst, I show no surprise when the aberration turns out to be my mobile phone. I hand it over to my room mate and continue washing; just my clothes this time. I’m glum alright, but it’s not the end of the world alright.

Instance 2 (Closer to an ‘end of the world’ situation): The disastrous second revelation was very well interwoven with the first one. Flash back to when I started soaking my clothes. I soak everything that seems remotely soiled. I could almost feel the relief coming from a wardrobe with a 10/10 on hygiene. So I power myself to the bathroom (In sharp contradiction to Instance 1, I was a bit pumped about finishing up my laundry) and started scrubbing. Jeans…noisy scrubs…foam…shirt…foam…noisy scrubs…jeans…pocket…phone…noisy “What the fuck”s…shirts…under wears…clothes dumped in bucket…power cut…another “What the fuck”…and I’m done. If only washing clothes and ruining mobile phones was that simple. I walk back to my wardrobe to get some clothes for a shower. I should have saved my “What the fuck”s for this precise moment. But I rarely run out of them. So I start shooting of before I realise I SHOULD’VE BEEN CAREFUL. I’m out of freaking underwear. In a world where regional barriers, deadly viruses and economic downturns form a healthy chunk of people’s problem’s, I have my very own exclusive package. I’ve washed all my underwear.

The two seem like comparatively manageable problems, but when clubbed together, you get a guy going commando for a day; without a phone. Seems incoherent? Try it.

These sounds splashing
Spraying colours in my head
Hiking in space,
Or am I still on my bed

These sounds liberating
Walking weightless and free
No rules to obey
No pull of gravity

These sounds so floaty
Taking me places
Morphing through the details
The ins and outs of spaces

These sounds give fire
They provide the spark
Lighting the fuel in me
Guiding me in the dark

These sounds like textures
Creating landscapes and skies
Untrue to skeptics
So far from lies

These sounds, spiral sliding
Get me scratching to grip
I wish it never fades,
And I gulp every sip.