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filthy frump from delhi.



“… being unable to find peace within myself, Imade use of the external surroundings to calm my spirit,and being unable to find delight within my heart,I borrowed a landscape to please it.”

                    — T’u Lung (T’u Ch’ihshui)

i’m just here- a little lost- a little hung up. i think it’s my own mind. things that are cupping their palms around me- keeping me from slashing into tinyness are the things that i can’t go without. even if it’s a sunrise and i’ve just slept for four hours the previous night. these colours and the wind delivers a hope at my footsteps. the embers keen on diminishing are kept there. i have become so porous for winds- to let ”em trickle down to the rearmost tired bone- to heal every sore. i can forget the ho-hums of my existence when i see a peach cloud against a dawnsky that’s aborning.
how furiously and awfully i can be my own. my own. unmutually everyone else’s. on my own. but i need things like a cloud of a wayward pigment, a wind that has gone reckless- all these co-passengers to make the maddening flock of pigeons that keep on fluttering their wings against the periphery of my belly to stop for a second. these things leave at their own terminal points- these things remind me like someone reminds you of your town in a train- by their smell and their talk- these things help me have myself for a while. these things put their thumbs against my forehead and knead the ache out. but what about the creases? 
any how, i’ll let myself feel good and not tired. 

“… being unable to find peace within myself, I
made use of the external surroundings to calm my spirit,
and being unable to find delight within my heart,
I borrowed a landscape to please it.”

                    — T’u Lung (T’u Ch’ihshui)

i’m just here- a little lost- a little hung up. i think it’s my own mind. things that are cupping their palms around me- keeping me from slashing into tinyness are the things that i can’t go without. even if it’s a sunrise and i’ve just slept for four hours the previous night. these colours and the wind delivers a hope at my footsteps. the embers keen on diminishing are kept there. i have become so porous for winds- to let ”em trickle down to the rearmost tired bone- to heal every sore. i can forget the ho-hums of my existence when i see a peach cloud against a dawnsky that’s aborning.

how furiously and awfully i can be my own. my own. unmutually everyone else’s. on my own. but i need things like a cloud of a wayward pigment, a wind that has gone reckless- all these co-passengers to make the maddening flock of pigeons that keep on fluttering their wings against the periphery of my belly to stop for a second. these things leave at their own terminal points- these things remind me like someone reminds you of your town in a train- by their smell and their talk- these things help me have myself for a while. these things put their thumbs against my forehead and knead the ache out. but what about the creases? 

any how, i’ll let myself feel good and not tired. 

morning things that make my heart giddy:

the liminally growing salmon getting absorbed by a blue-black in the sky; the cacaphony of birds by one and one and one and another, filling the troposphere in tides of listlessly passing time; soft winds that wake up after the night through the leaves through the skin to the soul; souks selling national dailies unshuttering- loading the pavements with what they have in store; brush shrush grainy sounds of big brooms against the leaf and rubbish caked ground; bare necks facing east turning to the west after shut eyes blaze with an orange so loud; the flocking of people to places where the go to calm their bladders; the over enthusiastic circus of sounds by The Velvet Underground; the smelly mouths now- the toothpaste chins looking in the tea pans for hot cardamom fumes; tea tea hitting that lil’ dizzying ache in the forehead; and most tenderly and importantly, the sleepy sand paper voices of people. 

last night sometime after the clock stuck four i know i was seeing depleting blackness in my room and there was something paying me in a tune. a string tune coalescing with an air tune- a sound of a single hum of wind chimes transfiguring into a broken legato. bless, i returned back to meself for that moment. 

Anonymous asks: hey!! have you read on the road???

Yes! I read it the previous summer. That book gives me the verve and the bliss.

There’s this part when Sal Paradise works in a cotton field? I could feel the sun on my shoulders and I could feel my hair pirouetting and I could feel the mild-milky cotton bolls smelling of slush. I was there mumbling- and I was sitting on my bed, bathing in bulb light at 2 am. Ahhh.

 

 

(Source: hairnteeth)

A stinging wind blew across her dry, aching eyes
—Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

slavic:

Fujara is a folk instrument whose native home is a small region in central Slovakia called Podpoľanie. It is over five feet (1.7m) long, deep-bass folk flute of Slovak shepherds. Cherished in the seclusion of Slovakian mountains, Fujara preserved over centuries as simple as it was in the beginning. Fujara flute uniquely combines a natural, easy to learn playing technique and an amazing voice. Fujara probably evolved from the Gothic fife (12.-13. cent.) and as an endemit survived up to this day, but I’m not sure when it appeared. It belongs to the UNESCO world cultural heritage. 

He, who has never felt alone in the miles of longitude between desert towns. A man in a desert can hold absence in his cupped hands knowing it is something that feeds him more than water. There is a plant he knows near El Taj, whose heart, if one cuts it out, is replaced with a fluid containing herbal goodness. Every morning one can drink the liquid the amount of a missing heart. The plant continues to flourish for a year before it dies from some lack or other.
—Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient

this was something happy. i was listening to a friend’s song and everything was like a water thing- an air thing. the iguania clouds; her song placing tender footsteps-feltsteps in my ears, in my soul; and i without any name- just a perceptive thing with the liminal colours breaking on my skin and bidding a receding farewell. i could hear everything breathing into me- “it’s her- it’s here”.

this homemade icecream is icy. he he. i had a hard day now it’s stretched and dead and i am still alive. my friend gave me a survival note, she is hope dispenser- i don’t know.

Photograph by Martine Franck (1938 - 2012).

Photograph by Martine Franck (1938 - 2012).

(Source: poetryconcrete)

i’m really busy these days- thoughts and things are everywhere like tattered coloured creased origami paper. four hours of sleep. friends are making me feel loved and happy- being with them is more stimulating than coffee. ahh. how awfully comforting it is to know that there is another lil’ person breathing somewhere near you, when you are tip-toeing & body see-sawing on the edge of a rock face- all smiling. walking thru horror town- with a hand that is equally scared clinging to yours. this is how we share strength a lil’ from me and a lil’ form you in our pool. 

friends who are proud of you are the most important.

 

Hamza El Din—“Helalisa (Nubian Song)”

Eclipse (1978; Smithsonian Folkways reissue).

(49 plays)

What will suffice for a true-love knot? Even the rain?
But he has bought grief’s lottery, bought even the rain.

“our glosses / wanting in this world” “Can you remember?”
Anyone! “when we thought / the poets taught” even the rain?

After we died—That was it!—God left us in the dark.
And as we forgot the dark, we forgot even the rain.

Drought was over. Where was I? Drinks were on the house.
For mixers, my love, you’d poured—what?—even the rain.

Of this pear-shaped orange’s perfumed twist, I will say:
Extract Vermouth from the bergamot, even the rain.

How did the Enemy love you—with earth? air? and fire?
He held just one thing back till he got even: the rain.

This is God’s site for a new house of executions?
You swear by the Bible, Despot, even the rain?

After the bones—those flowers—this was found in the urn:
The lost river, ashes from the ghat, even the rain.

What was I to prophesy if not the end of the world?
A salt pillar for the lonely lot, even the rain.

How the air raged, desperate, streaming the earth with flames—
to help burn down my house, Fire sought even the rain.

He would raze the mountains, he would level the waves,
he would, to smooth his epic plot, even the rain.

New York belongs at daybreak to only me, just me—
to make this claim Memory’s brought even the rain.

They’ve found the knife that killed you, but whose prints are these?
No one has such small hands, Shahid, not even the rain.

Even The Rain, Agha Shahid Ali