An accident

Time is a conundrum. Out of a million possibilities, only one untimely event occurs. It does not coincide, it is not a mathematical equation. Every story has a background, mine did too. Chances are not real, they couldn't be, or else I wouldn't be here. Not in the midst of everything that could have been.

I was there, in that abated silence, under the brazen sun. Time was running out, and so was my breath. The spot was parched, and I was tired. I panted only for the golden rust to listen, for the jeery crowds to not pay attention.I could see my carriage chanting from a distance, it was not to stop, not here I knew that, I was to wait for the next one.

It was comforting to know, my spot would remain mine, for a little more time. I should not get up, not even if the white scarved gentlemen would push ,nor if my clock violently ticks away, not if satellite sends me a text from the heaven above. I was patient, I had waited. I was told nothing was to be hurried, nothing was to be rushed..I knew of possibilities, I knew the moon would wait for me to cross the lake, the sun would stop just so that I could breathe. I didn't find that strange, I was raised not to.

But I was carried along in the discomfort, the violent perspiration, in the lucidity of  a mob. I never understood those intentions, to stand first, never to fall, never to be seconded . Neither did any of them, I presume, I was inside and so was everybody else. It was a sacrament, every body made to the finish line.

I was squeamish, among a quiver, a gaze, a valiant attempt to have a conversation or two. I was not up for it, I missed my rusty spot, I could barely manage to stand the impregnated hustle. It was far too shifty, far too gullible for silence.

Were my silent ears dampened, did my mind grow tired of oblivion, I did not know, that day, a little whisper had irked me. I was asked to move my leg, I couldn't I was already on someone else's. And so I came to notice this man, his frail palms, not quite a friend to his words, that danced like a violin. They were difficult, far difficult to stay, far difficult to convince. Yet his friend, a woman no less ordinary , was attentive.

They chatted the ordinaries, their eyes were transfixed, not in a mating ritual, not in an adoration, they were just souls speaking ages. It was a man and a woman who conversed about motherhood, about their foregone children, about sizes, about shapes, about money, about passion, about losing, about love, about the universe and about her.He wasn't queer, she wasn't related. They spoke like two lovelorns, in a bottomless pit. They were not falling like Alice, they were traveling , together.

I peeped, his hands had stopped , he wanted to turn, I wanted him to, he seemed to know that. I did not look at him, I did not want to be acknowledged, I just wanted to look. And so he did, with his face rested on his fingers, his eyes to the next man.

The lady had left, and so he began with another man. The dance had started, his shawl was re-draped. The another man was tight, he didn't look. His conversations almost made him sick, sick with freedom, sick without lines. He told him stories, he told him about the lady, he told him that this was the first time they had met. The other man listened, like his conversationist had , he was only clearing his intent. His eyes made people talk, his eyes made him listen.

I was to be heard, I was to be woven in his intricacies, in his ocean of eyes.I had ushered to be next, I was waiting. I could wait, the stars could, the moment could. He was for the passion I had let go, for things that I was too good to try for, for things I wasn't, he could make me do it. He could listen , he would, he wanted to.

I had waited for the timeless time, for the long harrowing lines, for the arrows to point right, for the dust to rise up and disappear, for my eyes to mist, for silence, for conversations, for understanding, for questions, for their answers.

But, time is a conundrum, I had never understood what it could make one do, it wasn't right for me. It was rather too right, I could be wrong, I haven't ruled out the possibility.

That man's gaze never met, I never spoke. My stop was near, it was just a matter of seconds, it didn't happen, I had missed as I believed. I was not heard, I didn't swim in his ocean of idea, I was never made a part of it.

I traveled each day, for that to happen, I ran for every spot, I competed for every point since then. I was never met, not by him, not by those who had . I never saw them, I searched for every bus, I searched for every junction, they were no where, those three individuals. I had asked for them , for that man,the lady and the other man. They had disappeared. I had changed, I had stopped waiting, I was violent for reasons I quite couldn't explain. He had evaporated, into this world that was far too confound to look. He was missed, I had missed an accident.

The pilgrim called popularity

When I have insisted, I have questioned, what mostly I did not comprehend in the very first place. I have gained attention, mastered some sort of ingenuity in creating ambiguity. Did I really have an opinion? I darn should. Did I make sense after or before I passed out? Was I tossed out or stacked inside, following the slur I developed each time I had the mike piece?

Nada! Instead I had My space, Facebook and a magnitude of free web space where only I could determine whether or not I was important.  And so I had an opinion on everything. About things that I did not give a rat’s arse about. Popularity was measured and subsequently counterfeited by how many visitors I had, on my web page.  I became smarter. I was an author, philosopher, and a photographer all in one breath. I was also significantly hanged at the flagpole, ignored and named an imbecile among the facts of existence.

Nothing changed yet in my entirety though all of a sudden me and myself were approved. Was it because I good naturedly called it random and prefixed awesomeness besides it.

Could be, I don’t get what either of them means, and am too awesome to randomly find my dictionary to look for it.

And because you reached till here you certainly deserve to hear HER out!

When Gibson said goodbye

Can I touch that key?
Can I play, that song, would I be a prodigy?
Or would I be rather sad,
Will that make you happy

Will you teach me,
Will you sing with me,
Will you sing me to sleep

Or would you rather make money
would you rather not come home
Would you rather sleep it off
Or did you ask me to do the same

Will you judge
Will you say play again
Will you be able to let me know
Will you be able to comply, in silence

Can I go now,
Isn't it too late
Did you not get my letters
Did you forget?

Should I too,
Does that mean I have to forgive,
will you ask for it
I shall think

Are you making me think
Tell me I can't tell
Am I too little, are you too big

Tell me again,
I can't tell
Can you write, I will not ask
Not for more,

I can ask for less,
Will that be enough
Will that be too much

I shall not sleep
I will wait, do you want me to?
Does that make you uncomfortable

Do I make you queasy
You want to know about me
Should I say it

Am I too loud
Ain't you too quite
Do you want me to stop

Tell me I can't tell
Tell me again, I won't say again
Will that be too much
Will that be enough

That last piece of Heaven

What is that single moment ?That moment next to nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Nothing to believe, nothing to bear down, nothing to show for?

Just one single moment. without spaces, or emptiness or pauses . No hopes to buy into, no dreams to walk to, just the plain old lucid whimsical self , trying nothing, being nothing.

Nothing shady, nothing crazy. No drama, no whimpers, nothing too absolute, nothing too oblivious.

What is that moment within a series of  moments, between all that is happening, among all that could?

Between a million possibilities , among failures, among chances amidst experiences , that could lead to nothing or too many things.

Is  it the place where the sun tilts westwards, and the moon calls in a late night? Where the darkness beneath is too high for the fires in the skies to reach? Or that sudden kiss of thunder over the roof that sees no rain at all? Or that last breath of the old man who lived through a borrowed life?

Is it the last patient breath, a mourner's silence, an angry man's plea, the last call to stop, the final man on earth, the new life that waits to look at you alone?

Is it not in solitude, in emptiness, in hollowness, in silences that you can move again, that you can finally stop looking. Is it not that moment where you decide to let go of the bygones?

Oh, why do you cry then, why do you mourn? Who is is that you are looking for? Who will it be when you can finally stop searching? Is the hope not enough, that pushes every drop of your blood to your heart, that makes you breathe, that makes you live?

That little window that overlooks two more stories, that frail piece of desert, that closed drop of hunger, that coercing peace.

That final freedom, that first discovery, that circle of life and that boundless death. That everything, that nothing, that last piece of heaven, that first piece of hell. 

Review: Blue Valentine

If there is an archetype for romance on American screens, Derek Cianfrance in his new film Blue Valentine successfully break it.  It comes across as such effortless style that one will only be rendered speechless.

The plot revolves around a married couple coming to terms with their lack of compatibility and a possible separation. The plot travels from the present to the past, the times where they met and took and began their eventual relationship. The beauty lies in the performance of every single actor. Ryan Gosling as the husband fulfills his oblivion via his childlike inhibitions. His character embodies the true capital abstraction. The America that has his dreams designed into a life that he now lives, and his individual sensibilities that knows nothing more than to love his wife and their child. A conversation with his wife Cindy ( Michelle Williams), takes us back to the notions of love that we have been promised for decades from the screen we look in to. He asks, “what potential, potential to be what? what more than being your husband and being Frankie’s father?” His oblivion to his wife’s silent tumult is truly the raw quality that makes the film stand out from the genre it promises.

Williams as the only complexity this film articulates is remarkable. Not only is the grammar of her brokenness beautifully internalized, but rather she partakes the drawing out the chaos in their companionship. There is nothing that leaves the viewer comfortable as the story unravels, the lines of a difficult life that these characters inhabit.

The camera captures side profiles, and extreme close ups of the conversations the two are having as a married couple. The jerkiness of the shots are played out by these characters in their side profiles , might not be anything new, but makes quite a statement with its filling the frame with excessive conversations , that are important and yet posed as ordinary. The discomfort felt by the couple in having these conversations and their mixed up feelings makes for the tone of the film. The retro blue, as seen largely on screen, and the strange circumstances the two continue to inhabit through their past proximity and the present distanciation that is doomed to occur, create the space for so much possibilities.

At the end, one does feel the stark remorse as the two figure out their ordeal, as one is reminded of the noiresque sensibility of the film. This sense of dystopia is also challenged in the film, when little Frankie, played by the ease and comfort of Faith Wlaydka , as the child of the couple who is the source of happiness and innocence for the film and the characters as well. The intimacy of all these characters show a great sense of maturity in the writing of Diane Cianfrance, Joey Curtis and Cami Delavigne .

The film purports itself as the epic narrative of two people, which it does fulfill with all its charms. One cannot miss such fresh possibility of this director, who is moving with the epic quality of the film too. 

The Velvet Coat

The velvet caressed her bare arms, for the very last time. She could still feel its warmth, like tiny fragments on her palm, the back of the elbow, and down the shoulders. It was as if she could whiff the fur, from which she had once longed to escape. She never noticed it had a smell!

It didn’t.  She smelt her confinement, the tight embrace and the pain. She had hidden beneath it long enough to grow accustomed. It was awkward to not be in agony, to not suffer, to not be ashamed. She was naked without it. The velvet coat had left, she hadn't.

That velvet coat was fear. 

And only at this very abandonment, she felt brave, to witness every bizarre motion that her spine once ached to feel. She was light like the autumn flower. She was weightless, and her feet knew no bound. She knew she could sit through dawn. She knew could wait, wide awake for the bright cherries in the crimson sun. In that very moment she knew she could walk till there was no land, speak till she could not hear her own voice and laugh till every flower bloomed.

In that very moment, she knew she could be happy for she knew she was free.

Zephyr

Was it the rush for the last dive or just the deep blue sky that suddenly knew no bounds, she wondered.

The last breath of sugary orange ice danced in her tongue, or was that the crisp marigold petals that blew through the sky.  

A cry broke out at the back, “Hey you, what do you think you’re up to. There are little kids waitin……”  Swoosh, woosh, she made these sounds louder to her ear, everything else could wait today. The feet rose higher and she pushed harder. She could almost hear the swing loosen up a bit, a screw or two racing to leave. After all it could not hold 100 pounds for that long, the limit was 85 pounds, children only, no adults. 

But not today, it was none of her concern.The hair was all over her face twisted in sand, her handbag at a solitary bench somewhere facing the heap, her phone would already have buzzed a hundred times, her pile at her desk was too huge to even stare at . Ah! All of it could not swap her attention from the blissful evening. She was all by herself and the wind continued its foreplay. And Zenab was still in the mood for more chases. Clink, her silver bangles would clap against each other, and air will make its way through the little spaces beneath the tuck in, there were no disappointments no judgments here. The little whims and the tears amidst the little people she was surrounded with blended with her joy, the laughter of contentment. 

For once she was deaf, the only sound she heard now did not need to make any sense, she laughed throwing her head back, and even the awful glances had no intention of holding her back today. No sweat, no worries. Thud!, , her face fell flat on the heap, the particles of sand fighting to drop inside the shirt.The swing aiming for sideways now, she was no longer on the seat, she realised. “Are you all right…, God!, can you hear me?” a hand over her head, she slowly raised herself. 

It was fun, but certainly not to those sturdy arms that helped her up. He had clean flexed up muscles, the full sleeved black T-shirt did not do justice. The nose had fine crook, thick eyebrows and a thin line for lips that frowned at her. His eyes were soft, hazel brown origins, a kid holding his shirt. Married, she presumed. She pushed her hair back, with a gentle smile to a disappointed whim, started towards the other end. The long queue at the swings dispersed and the annoyance faded at the back. What is with these hitched ones anyway, that pulls me, she said to herself. The flat screen on her phone with 6 missed calls reminded her why.

Unfolding her now sand washed denims, she breathed in the aroma for one last time. The smell of freedom wafting in the sidelines, she sat in her little blue cardilac, Rusty she called it. Agony bequeathed on her back seat, her way home and ahead.

She probably will not return those unanswered calls, talk to her mother right back, and maybe even finish the manuscript she once was so agitated to start, 6 years ago.  But one thing was definite, she would come back. 

To kiss the memories of the times when she did not check before parting out her lips for a grin, to sway in the madness of nothingness, the engine roared. One last glance, and the sun prepared for the next shift, beaming she leaped into the golden road.