Some weeks ago, a boy I'm now kind of proud to have studied with, announced on Facebook that he was off to MIT to study linguistics. There were lots of ooh and aahs and all round pats on the back. He was
the achiever among the pigeons, and no one was really surprised at this
most becoming development. Like a good former classmate, I duly liked
his status, and commented jokingly to get me Noam Chomsky's autograph.
(What I would do with it, god lone knows. I didn't even really want it.
It's just one of those rubbishy things I find myself saying all too
often).
Anyway. So this MIT boy, this humble whiz and I exchanged a thread on FB. He was very kind. Said nice things about one okay-ish article I'd written and then this other thing that stayed with me. I'm not going to be megalo enough to go see exactly what he said, but if memory won't abandon my side, it was a casual, almost hidden tip/ suggestion - about how I should write from the heart more, and how he'd want to and would read about the things I wrote from the heart.
Of course, this is obvious and you're saying duh. But I thought it very sweet. It reminded me of what my -- how should I put this delicately -- my 'favourite ex', would tell me about the flaw in my writing, of its being invulnerable. Back then it was a revelation. I suddenly respected him for the truth in his observation. As if to say enough already with the swagger in the word play, get to the bone. And so this has stayed. Lots have people say this to me. They use different words. Have more 'courage'. Be open to 'experience'. Live more 'fully'. And if it's from a source I respect and find credible and who's writing and read and find readable, I absorb this.
But there was a gentleness in the suggestion - the heart thing -- that made me absorb it with no resistance. Today when I saw again, on FB that he had himself photographed with Chomsky, like a true yuppie affected by these photgraph ripples and his proximity to greatness, I was made more keen to bare the bone. This should be flattering for him, my former classmate, in case he ever reads. Nothing like bringing a little red on to the cheeks of an academic.
Honey locust peanuts
with lime and salt
brought by He
who knows our order
-- not much more
for a Tuesday to work
what helps are
shells of moomphalli
scattered across
a ceramic of chatter
moulded by watching
they who unknowingly offer
what in them
even they don't see
In the language of hands
and incomplete frowns
we dig past memories
of keen easy people,
to get to irksome truths
and collages of those
so inconveniently craved
in a manner of talk,
in the banter we sustain
is an awareness
we catch
remarks we add
sharp mines of details
and pits of thought
to explode and rise
like whiffs of clove
that belong to yesterday
-- amateur vomit. :)
Anyway. So this MIT boy, this humble whiz and I exchanged a thread on FB. He was very kind. Said nice things about one okay-ish article I'd written and then this other thing that stayed with me. I'm not going to be megalo enough to go see exactly what he said, but if memory won't abandon my side, it was a casual, almost hidden tip/ suggestion - about how I should write from the heart more, and how he'd want to and would read about the things I wrote from the heart.
Of course, this is obvious and you're saying duh. But I thought it very sweet. It reminded me of what my -- how should I put this delicately -- my 'favourite ex', would tell me about the flaw in my writing, of its being invulnerable. Back then it was a revelation. I suddenly respected him for the truth in his observation. As if to say enough already with the swagger in the word play, get to the bone. And so this has stayed. Lots have people say this to me. They use different words. Have more 'courage'. Be open to 'experience'. Live more 'fully'. And if it's from a source I respect and find credible and who's writing and read and find readable, I absorb this.
But there was a gentleness in the suggestion - the heart thing -- that made me absorb it with no resistance. Today when I saw again, on FB that he had himself photographed with Chomsky, like a true yuppie affected by these photgraph ripples and his proximity to greatness, I was made more keen to bare the bone. This should be flattering for him, my former classmate, in case he ever reads. Nothing like bringing a little red on to the cheeks of an academic.
~
Last evening, we, us two drinkers and thinkers, we pretended vodka and
whiskey were the martinis we craved on a Tuesday night. Not for the sake
of the martini, or anything bright pink in conical glassware, but more
to ape the life we read in passages of books that creep in to the
favourites.
I want to remember what we spoke about. I don't know why. Maybe its pointless to take inventory. I don't need to bookmark an evening that ended with a blizzard of yellow neem leaves storming off their motherships; an errant one, like the Forrest Gump feather, even flitting into my car and sitting on the dashboard as I maniacally drove down the roundabout of central Delhi at night, do I?
It's okay to change form then, I guess. To, I don't know -
I want to remember what we spoke about. I don't know why. Maybe its pointless to take inventory. I don't need to bookmark an evening that ended with a blizzard of yellow neem leaves storming off their motherships; an errant one, like the Forrest Gump feather, even flitting into my car and sitting on the dashboard as I maniacally drove down the roundabout of central Delhi at night, do I?
It's okay to change form then, I guess. To, I don't know -
Honey locust peanuts
with lime and salt
brought by He
who knows our order
-- not much more
for a Tuesday to work
what helps are
shells of moomphalli
scattered across
a ceramic of chatter
moulded by watching
they who unknowingly offer
what in them
even they don't see
In the language of hands
and incomplete frowns
we dig past memories
of keen easy people,
to get to irksome truths
and collages of those
so inconveniently craved
in a manner of talk,
in the banter we sustain
is an awareness
we catch
remarks we add
sharp mines of details
and pits of thought
to explode and rise
like whiffs of clove
that belong to yesterday
-- amateur vomit. :)
5 comments:
you're virgo right? virgo's tend to be detached. linda goodman zindabad, all that.
which places you in an odd position.
you will need to make a trade-off. take it from an economist-in-training.
just joking
writing from heart, professional writing you mean? do a jarrod kimber, darling, compile blog posts and make into book.
still joking
-k
"But there was a gentleness in the suggestion - the heart thing -- that made me absorb it with no resistance. Today when I saw again, on FB that he had himself photographed with Chomsky, like a true yuppie affected by these photgraph ripples and his proximity to greatness, I was made more keen to bare the bone."
photograph ripples? the heart thing? eh whatisthis? What are you trying to say?
Chomsky inspires is it. I find him tedious.
- k
I have noo freakin' idear! :) only telling myself garbled text is okay too, every once in a way, if I enjoy it so. Horrendous, wassit? Jarred your bwains, did I? :)
Sure, I understand. Even maybe support the odd dribble here and there. Keeps you human.
But as a writer - and despite all your sighing and umm-ing, this much ambition I witness - your goal must be to not jar. What am I saying, you already know this.
- k
K: to not jar it is! :)
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