Attempts

Hiding from the popular blog and this is my forgotten lair.

Scribbled on an old notebook's gaut, yellow face, it follows ....

They can only be referred to as attempts.Brusque at times, abundant prolixity at others.To find something which hasn’t come in..Nothing but a bunch of episodes clutched in a mildly bruised palm.Tell tale signs from an unmentionable palaver the coltish squad embarked upon a while ago, in lieu of the city exercising its limitations to provide particularly hormonal sort of entertainment.
Then..more attempts to inch towards some sort of a discovery, if not an entire invention.
The literal door in the heathen floor actually opens to a mirror. Not the glowering face of Today but its the fugitive Past smiling back.And slowly goes south. Every journey’s memory escaping with the nip of the morning’s sigh.Vagabond thumbs in the air.
On route 66.
Java mixed with melancholic smirks at crumbling cafes. Hot, black and copious amounts of it. Legalized drugs. Pain and caffeine.
The Leica owning hermit treks to the gelid parts of the globe, even if just to indulge the jackleg, émigré experience.
Peeling the truth off its skin, a swift circular motion. Like clementines handed to a wino on the outskirts of a nowhere town.The fresh citrus smell of a new something that’s slowly coming in.Nestled in the warm arms of frozen mountains.An Amaranthine line, defined eternity for as far as her eyes could see.An immaculate silence draping this stretch of whiteDecibels keep their sobriety.
Except..
The occasional cackle of a falling branch in the rising tide.Fishsbone hangers jostling for space in the 5 am market fight.Words and wine spilling from a self proclaimed street soubrette’s eponymous act. The earnestness of desire, to rise to Neon in the multitude of Parisian lights.Belligerent banzai boomerangs from a man-made steel cabin, bookies at a roadside rooster fight. Passion, pride and saved pennies(Angles?) invested in an uncivilized game that you and I’ve been conditioned to scoff at in the Other Part. A civilized sport. The sheer irony. Hah!

A mother’s feeble steps to hold my hand just to relive her motherhood for a while, in the colossal shadow of her newly adopted dottre -” Your smile can light an ocean”- The Unique Indian Smile. To remind the likes of this peripatetic mongrel, years and miles don’t take away from the fact that there always is a mother waiting at the other end.

The busker pays homage to Rafayette Afro Rock Band(the title) and Bach, in equal measures.Then those cherry lips placed with delicate care on a stunningly blanche face, the mist gives way to raspy vocals that illuminate the barge so well that the city council should pay her for the job. She sings straight to my heart, almost. Belle far niente.

Leica comes to life. The simple and sometimes monotonus act of capturing light becomes a passionate engagement, an exhibitionist-cum-voyeuristic form of lovemaking. It carries the sting of sex, the bite of love, devoid of the carnal captions, of course.

The world closes in on a touch, a toothless grin(at the mahjong tables), a soul song, a war cry in a “crassy” sport and swims in the swirls of Fino that washes down the day’s tiredness and bowls of paella.

The temperate night falls on an unsuspecting ground like the hammer of Thor. The cicadas hold their night court outside my window and the river commences its ritualistic whispering of tales, of the day’s boatmen and rowing competitions, to the rocks lining its path. Sleep’s seraphic eyes look down upon my closing ones. As the body slips into the requisite comatose state for the next 6 hours, the soul dreams of joining the caravan on the otherside.

And it all comes together. Such simplicity that you’d cringe.To have found something. Within.
To have become Whole. Without anyone else and still with everyone else.


In the end I was the mean girl
Or
Somebody's "In-Between" girl

And he says I am callous...
I don't know if I should erupt in manic laughter or just burn myself down with my own sweltering tears.
I moved on. Didn't I?