सोच


filthy frump from delhi.


In delhi one in five children are born at home. Tearing of the news typed paper wrapping in it a sanitary napkin. Delhi wat’s the colour- buff- bare- too many coulurs white light colour- no translusence. this city dwells in it’s onw all-encompasing symphony.

Delhi- when I walk on the zebra crossings on cp, I cpant- c-p-c-p-cp- as my feet go one by one- from the alternate stripes. Delhi some languid and agile heartbeat- I don’t have a chocie to be fragile. When I amble even if I have a mother by my side I feel that i’d trip- the laces ODF my shoes are twined-knotted- that’s too hard to loosen- no residual time left just chipped of shiny surfaces. Delhi there are too many sound- that there is no sound- the celing fan’s swish and woosh are more of skin sensation. The girlboy college kids who do who do theatre in kmc- in the ground are practicing in thick voices. The shower wateer trickled through the crevices left and right of my neck and what was it if it wasnt’ a warm water cascade. Yes here I cant feel this without overlalppong- it has to be this and that and that also- feeeling in delhi are like it’s masala chaats. Delhi beds become streets- yes open windows if not air condietioners are on bring eveyr odor- here I am learning how to love the disgusting. How to hold them in me- without that shudder- to feel about it like I feel about regular happiness. I am always braiding the trininty of this cities parted hair- up down middle. Old me new. The morphology f this city can’t be anything- it has to be nothing. It is nothing. I’ve been to maws of this city and known the smells- peppermint, leaf lkind cigarettes, urine. Here people like to drawl and the movements are slow- laid bACK AND some one day they are told to hurry up. Now eveyone is telling each other to acceletate their human eingnes and no one wats to . Last evenijg I asked this girl the time- she looked ath her wathc and replied- but nonw of us smiled. This city is in the fucking strange palce- it is more like a rebellious fpourteen year old kin who wears all black and drinks even if it burns their throat. If I am a thing made of hardendd and baked potter’s clay- then this city drops me- and mends me. Always mends me. In delhi there is a lil’ girlboy who’s glass eyes rflect clouds and rush. I don’t allow myself tosay a thing about this city- ive learnt everything about this place from hearsay now- hold back, sit on the bus that plys ont he longest rout- the cogested ones and the freeways- tilt your head a liitle form the window ( not too much- kids get hurt by signal boards) and let delhi dry the damp it spilled on your skinh. i was a four- in a hospital somehwere when i first saw this city afterward to forget that a flute played and and the rythm said let me love you let me hurt you, my dear kid. 

Common Colours. 

chaotic-keys asks: But I do not wish to escape to myself, I wish to escape from myself. I wish to obliterate my consciousness and my knowledge of independent existence, my guilts, my secretiveness, what you would (perhaps unkindly) call my “hypocrisy”. I am no child of nature, I am ugly and imperfect to myself, and I cannot through poetry or romantic visions exalt myself to symbolic glory.”— Allen Ginsberg, from a letter to Jack Kerouac

thank you, thank you for sending this. you’ve got the beat verve ma’am. 

Anonymous asks: Have you been ever in love with a person to the extent of baring it all? Raw, crudest form of love. Are you in a relationship with someone at present?

icecream and led zeppelin though. 


“… 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.